


Right Place, Wrong Time

by GatesKeeper



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon, Castiel and Dean Winchester Have a Profound Bond, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:54:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 41,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22117462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GatesKeeper/pseuds/GatesKeeper
Summary: Dean and Bobby are hunkered down in a barn covered in religious symbols, awaiting the arrival of the mysterious Castiel, when suddenly they're in a park, talking to another version of Dean, who thinks they were brought 7 1/2 years into the future by God's sister, Amara. Following him first to the bunker where he lives--and then on a rescue mission to find Sam--they learn a lot about how their lives are going to turn out. Unless they decide to change them.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 414
Kudos: 609





	1. 2008's Dean POV

_2008’s Dean POV_

I want to tell Bobby to can it with the whistling, but then I remember that this was the man who scared John Winchester away with a shotgun and decide against it.

You would think that, after Hell, regular old Earth—with its too greasy burgers and its slightly-gasoline scented air, and its decently small demon-to-human ratio—would seem like Heaven. But it’s not sitting right. There’s no way I was broken out of jail for nothing and whatever this _Castiel_ wants with me, it can’t be good.

So no matter how reckless summoning the damn thing is, I figured it would be better than waiting around for the next time it tried to tune my brain to a radio station whose only two songs are glass breaking and electronic feedback. And yet…that sort of feels exactly like what I’m doing. “You sure you did the ritual right?” I can’t help but ask the older hunter, spinning the point of Ruby’s demon-killing knife into the tabletop I’m using as a seat.

Bobby gives me a _look_.

“Sorry.” I tuck the knife into my jacket. “Touchy, touchy, huh?”

It’s famous last words apparently. Because no sooner are they out of my mouth than something crashes into the barn roof over our heads, causing a few of the loose shingles above us to crunch dangerously. I grab a gun pre-loaded with salt rounds, but by the time it is in my hand, the whole roof is shaking, a cool breeze settling into my bones through my three layers. “Wishful thinking, but maybe, it’s just the wind,” I murmur over my shoulder to Bobby—just in time to see a lightbulb in the background explode.

I’m on high-alert—adrenaline pumping through my veins—my attention just turning towards the barred barn door when…

I barely manage to keep to my feet when the ground beneath me suddenly turns spongy. Beside me, Bobby isn’t so lucky, sprawled out on the grass with his gun pointed at a moon that is a quarter fuller than it was the last time I looked outside.

It should freak me out that we’re suddenly in a park I don’t recognize. But I’m too busy focusing on what _is_ familiar. Which is my own face. Just a few feet away. In a different T-shirt-plaid combo than what I’m wearing. But the same gorgeous mug. “Who are you?” I ask, gritting my teeth. But then I remember Pamela already told me its name. “What are you?” I revise. And then, without waiting for an answer, I shoot.

It would have been a clean shot if Bobby hadn’t knocked the gun sideways at the last moment. “What the heck?” I ask the other hunter, readying up another round.

“Sorry, boy. But you just got outta Hell and I ain’t kept my eye on you every minute since then. I’m not sure if you’re you or he’s you.”

“Bobby?” The doppelganger croaks, green eyes wide, and even I’m impressed with that Oscar-worthy performance.

“Don’t listen to him, Bobby. _I’m_ Dean. You played catch with me when you should’ve been giving me hunting lessons. And once, when I was sixteen, I got drunk and jumped off one of the cars in the salvage yard right onto a twisted piece of metal. Sliced my leg through the muscle and you—you remember, you yelled at me the whole ride to the hospital. But you also snuck me in a burger when all they wanted to give me was mystery meat and didn’t say a word to Dad. And when Sammy went to Stanford…”

“You called and told me you needed my help with some witches that were cursing $5 bills in bumfuck, Maine—when really, you coulda handled it by yourself. You just didn’t want me to be alone,” the other me finishes.

“Get outta my head,” I growl, firing again. But he seemed to anticipate my move and jumped to the side, causing my shot to bury itself in tree bark.

“I’m not--” he yells back, eyes squared in my direction. “I’m—I’m you. An older you. I think…you both time traveled.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Marty McFly.”

“I’m serious,” he says, palms spread to show us he’s not holding a weapon. “I’ve done it a few times now, so it’s less of a shock to me. But time travel is definitely real and you are definitely from 2008.”

That does give me a moment of pause. For sure, the dude seems crazy—but not actively trying-to-kill-us crazy—and I’m sorta interested in what else he’s planning to pull out of his ass.

“If we’re from your past, shouldn’t you remember this moment? What comes next?” Bobby asks, adjusting the brim of his hat to get a better look at the other guy. And as I look, too, I realize we aren’t identical. He’s a bit bulkier than me—whether that’s from added muscle or too much diner food, I can’t really tell. His hair has become even less distinct of a color than my own sorta-blonde sorta-brown. There are tiny wrinkles around his eyes—as if this impersonator thought there was any chance I’d grow up with _laugh line_ s ‘cause my life is such a barrel of giggles.

“I don’t remember this. Which means this little meeting either gets wiped from _his_ memory,” he jerks his thumb at me. “Or Amara just arranged it now and it didn’t happen this way before.”

“And who the hell is Amara?” Bobby’s tone borders on exasperation.

The doppelganger grimaces. “Kinda a long story. Maybe we’ll just hold off on that one until I get you guys home. Sammy probably thinks I’m dead right now—and the sooner he knows I’m still kickin’, the less chance of him making a demon deal to get me back... Or going off to find a new live-in girlfriend,” he adds, with an eye-roll.

I think of that brunette chick who thought I was the pizza delivery man and can’t help but snort in agreement.

“Look, there’s no way we’re going anywhere with you,” I tell him honestly, remembering the table full of supplies we’d left behind in the barn with regret. “We don’t even have silver on us to test--”

He reaches into one of his pockets and pulls out a very familiar knife, though it’s got a few more knicks in it than I remember. He slices his own palm carefully, then tosses it to me. Next, he splashes himself with a flask—containing what I presume is salted holy water. Lastly, he points out where I’m keeping every lockpicking tool I have on me. And even though what he said about being from the future is completely unbelievable, I look at Bobby and can see that he’s starting to believe it.

“It’s two against one,” the other Dean argues. “And I don’t have a car with me. We’ll have to jack one. I’ll even--” he rolls his shoulders. “I’ll even let you drive. That’s as non-trappy as I can make it. But I really need to get back to the bunker and you guys are coming with.”


	2. 2016's Dean POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can already tell that this fic is going to test my Supernatural knowledge to the max, haha. So many Easter eggs.
> 
> Also, tell me: what kinds of interactions do you look forward to the most in time travel stories?

_2016’s Dean POV_

_“Dean, you gave me what I needed most. I want to do the same for you.”_

That’s what Amara had said. But why God’s sister thinks I need the boy wonder version of myself, I have no idea. My eyes flick from the road—he can drive at least—down to my cellphone, scrolling through familiar contacts.

“This is Sam. Leave a message.”

“Sammy, it’s me. Not dead. So you can put the Gary Busey on hold. Call me.”

My mini-me glances over, curiously, but I hold out a finger, already pressing another button.

“This is my voice mail. Make your…voice…a mail.”

“Cas, look, I hope you’re not drinking a liquor store again. I’m fine, the planet’s fine. Just want to know that you guys are OK since Sam’s not picking up either.” I hit end before the beep and rub the heels of my hands into my eyes. This has been the longest fuckin’ day and all I want is to sink into my memory foam mattress and get some shut-eye—but the loud throat-clearing from beside me is a reminder that that’s not gonna happen for a while.

“You didn’t mention us?” My younger self’s eyes flicker between me and Bobby, visible in the rearview mirror above a long-expired air freshener in the shape of a pine tree.

“Seemed more like an in-person kind of discussion.”

He pauses to consider that. “Who was that second call to?”

“Cas?” I ask, confused, but then realize he might not yet recognize the nickname. “Castiel?”

The car swerves—not enough to take us out of the lane, but enough that I grip the dashboard in front of me. Meanwhile, Dean is white-knuckling the steering wheel. “What is wrong with you?!” I yell, already looking for a place I can demand he pull over—when I notice Bobby is wearing the same expression of tensed-jaw fear.

“Ah, fuck. When Bobby said you just got out of Hell, he means _just_ got out of Hell, didn’t he? Have you even met Cas yet?”

“We were trying to summon him when we wound up with you…Now, you mind explaining to me why you’re giving a creature who burns people’s _eyes out_ a nickname?” Suddenly, I’m glad I had the foresight to suggest that we all lock our weapons in the trunk for this car ride—even though I know we all have to be packing at least one blade.

“That wasn’t his fault, exactly,” I wince, knowing how this would sound to a younger version of myself. “Cas’s got a human form now, but he didn’t know he needed one right after he yanked our ass out of the basement. Didn’t really know how to talk to people either—you know, the screeching. He _did_ try to warn Pamela that she couldn’t look at his true self without her eyes burning. You remember, he resisted coming forward? But since when has any hunter—or psychic hunter assist—taken “no” for an answer when we think we can get a peek behind the curtain?”

I wish I could leave it at that, but the more I think about the crazy shit show my life has been the last eight years, the antsier I feel about these two being here without any clue of what the world is like now. I mean, what if other Me gets killed before we can send him back? He wouldn’t be able to stop Sammy from becoming Lucifer’s vessel—and suddenly, the world goes back to being a Croatoan Zombieland, except without the leader of Camp Chitaqua. Not that that would be such a loss. Dude was a dick.

“Since I know you’re wondering,” I sigh, already anticipating the coming protests. “Cas is an angel. Of the lord. Well…he fell. So, never mind, scratch that last part.”

“There’s no such--” the other Me begins, with heat.

“Yeah, yeah, I know you don’t believe in that stuff. And it’s not like I can do what Cas did when we met and pull out the wings—to be honest, I don’t even know if he still _has_ wings since the whole Metatron thing--” _OK, slow down,_ I tell myself. “Point is, angels _are_ real and you, Bobby, and Sam are about to have them coming out of your ass. Don’t listen to most of them—they’re douchebags. But Cas is…or he will be…family, so, you know, don’t go easy on him when he has the Almighty stick up his ass, but also give him the benefit of the doubt.”

“Should ya really be telling us all this?” Bobby asks, looking thoughtful—and after my initial shock at seeing him, it’s amazing how normal it feels to have him there. Like he was never dead—just out on a really long hunt, maybe.

“Probably not. Sam and Cas might lecture me on the consequences of messing with time or whatever. But all I’ve told you, really, is that you’ll time travel some and that Cas is a good guy. And you’ll figure that out for yourself within the year. As for finding out angels exist, you said Cas was just about to make his entrance—so that’s barely even a spoiler.”

“And where we’re going now? That’s not a spoiler?” Other Dean asks. I’d been giving him directions on a turn by turn basis since we left the park. We probably had about an hour until we were in Lebanon.

“I guess it is. But I don’t really see what’s the harm in you guys having a home base a little sooner than expected. Just try to avoid poking around too much when we get there.” I analyze my other self’s careful, neutral expression. “I’m _serious._ We got cursed objects and weird spell ingredients in every storage room. Once, I opened up this jar of pollen that caused me to switch bodies with Sam—and if you think it’s bad to be trapped in a car with him farting, just think what it’s like when you literally can’t get away from it.”

“What? Are you saying you don’t trust yourself?” He flashes a cocky smile that I know the ladies love, but just makes me want to punch him.

“Not at all.”


	3. 2008's Dean POV

_2008’s Dean POV_

It’s approaching morning when we dump the car on the road next to a forest. Other Me insists we walk the rest of the way—since he actually lives in this town and doesn’t want to call the wrong attention to his home. He’d said that so casually: “home.”

I’m feeling anxious to see it—and not all in a good way. My doppelganger pulls out his phone—a device that’s bigger than his palm with no visible buttons on it and if this is all an elaborate hallucination, I’ve got to give the demon or monster in charge of it props for the details. When he puts it away again, his shoulders are slightly tenser. I’m guessing he’s concerned that Sam still hasn’t returned his call. At least, we’ve got that in common.

We approach what looks like the military equivalent of a Hobbit house, set into the hillside. I try to hide a snort, but the other Dean catches it anyway and grins, fetching a set of keys.

“You live here, boy?” Bobby says, with a tiny hint of wonder, when the three of us are standing side-by-side on the landing above what appears to be a meeting room. A large map table sits in the center of the space—the walls around it covered with phones and other communication devices.

“Yeah, it’s an old Men of Letters Bunker.”

“A what now?” I question out loud.

“Men of Letters? Thought those were an old hunting myth,” Bobby’s eyes are darting interestedly from one spot to the other.

“No, they were real. Sort of a supernatural research society,” other Dean adds for my benefit. “OK, so they were _somewhat_ cooler than that. They collected information on monsters and were deep into all sorts of magic stuff, but they weren’t technically hunters. Tended to think that getting your hands dirty was barbaric. Turns out Grandpa Winchester was one.”

“Dad never knew that, though,” he continues, leading the way down the staircase. “Thought his old man ran off. Truth is, he time-traveled into a motel room Sammy and I were staying at a while back. Family tradition, I guess.”

“You mean he’s still around? I can meet him?” First a home, now he’s telling me I had other relatives. This was all sounding a bit too much like a djinn dream.

“Ah, he died actually. Demon named Abaddon. Well, Knight of Hell, technically. But I suppose you’ll still get to chat with him in, uh--” He quickly does the math. “Five years from your time? I think. Fair warning, I’m probably gonna get some stuff out of order.”

“Dean,” Bobby interrupts, nudging the older version of myself in the shoulder. There’s smeared blood on the floor.

Instantly, the casualness is gone from the other Dean’s body language. He pulls a gun—sweeping the area with it—before slowly walking in the direction of the blood trail. “Sammy?” he calls. “Cas?” His eyes light on a symbol drawn onto one of the pillars.

“What is that?” I ask Bobby, indicating the weird circle.

“Sam heck if I know,” he murmurs.

“Angel banishment rune,” older Me explains. “Someone wanted Cas gone.” His jaw is set tight. “You two wait here—I mean it. I need to search the place,” he says, already disappearing down a hallway. Like I was going to listen to that.

“Come on, Bobby. Let’s check through here.” The meeting room leads seamlessly into a library—but not the kind where I’d expect to find Vonnegut or J.K. Rowling. No, the books in here smell old—like parchment and herbs with just a trace of burnt coffee. I can already tell that, if we end up here a while, Bobby’s gonna end up falling asleep in one of the leather armchairs and then spend the entire next day complaining about his back.

We both turn toward the sudden sound of footsteps.

A man appears—mid to late 30s—looking like an accountant who just barely survived tax season with his wrinkled suit and trench coat and dark circles under his eyes. But, damn, if they weren’t the bluest eyes I’d ever seen.

“Dean?” he asks with overwhelming hope in his voice. Then he takes in Bobby beside me and tilts his head to the side. “Oh. You’re not…you. Not now you, anyway.”

“OK…so you know our names. Who’re _you?_ ” I ask, gesturing with my gun.

“Woah, woah! Put the weapons down. He’s a _friend._ ” Other Me stands in the archway with a smile on his face.

“Dean!” the accountant says again, rushing towards him.

“Heya, Cas,” he says, in an almost whisper, and then they both reach out at the same time and pull each other into a hug, Dean patting the other man’s back a few times. “OK, alright,” he soothes. I feel my face flush as I meet Bobby’s gaze.

The other Me seems to sense my discomfort and quickly lets go but the two of them stay within a few feet of each other, the accountant—well, I guess the angel—looking over the other Dean’s body for injuries.

“Dean. You’re alive,” Castiel repeats, as if he can’t believe it. “But the bomb and the Darkness...? What happened?”

“I’ll tell you everything. But, first, uh, you might have noticed our guests?”

“Yes. When are they from? What are they doing here?”

“You know how people say you never have a second chance to make a first impression?” Dean asks with raised eyebrows. “They’re from September 20, 2008—right before your dramatic entrance.”

“Oh.” The angel looks slightly embarrassed.

“So, come on, Man. You gotta say it.”

“Say what?” The two of them look at each other, a whole conversation passing between their eyes in the matter of a few seconds.

“Several demons and angels have made fun of me for that particular line. _You’ve_ made fun of me,” Castiel finally says out-loud.

“Doesn’t mean I didn’t like it.” Older Me gives an encouraging grin.

Castiel glances from him to me and then with a slightly apologetic grimace, mutters. “I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.” Next to me, Bobby tries to swallow a laugh and chokes.

“Man, you definitely did that better the first time,” Dean chuckles. But then, his face goes serious. “Where is Sam, by the way?”

“I don’t know. We came back here. There was a woman waiting for us. She blasted me away. I don’t know who she was. I don’t know what happened to Sam.”

Panic spikes in my gut—big brother instinct kicking in—and then I realize, with a jolt, that this missing Sam is several years older me. I don’t even know what he looks like.

Other Dean frowns, considering. “The bunker’s empty, so they’ve obviously left here. You said _woman?_ Not an angel, not a demon—a human?” he asks Castiel.

“She was human,” he confirms.

Dean walks around me and Bobby, leading Castiel by an invisible bond. He flips open a laptop on one of the library tables and quickly types in a password. “When did this go down?

“2:12 AM.”

“But how many seconds?” I ask as my other self flips between different traffic cam views. It’s not something I know how to hack in to and I wonder when I pick up that particular criminal life skill.

“48. Sorry, I didn’t think it was relevant,” Castiel murmurs, leaning over Dean’s shoulder.

“Is he for real?” I sputter, thinking that of all the scenarios I had in mind for who Castiel was, this is the last I would expect. He’s wearing business shoes, for God’s sake.

“Yes,” Dean says, barely sparing me a glance. “And take it from experience, don’t mess with the nerdy angels. Right, Cas?”

“If he tries punching me as you were prone to doing in 2008 and 2009, I promise I will heal him afterward,” he says, simply, before pointing out an SUV running a red light on the screen.

Dean nods. “This was a few blocks from here at 2:21 AM. Then there’s not another car for 40 minutes.” He opens up another tab and types in the license plate number. “I’ve got an address. Let’s go.”

We troop past several hallways containing at least six doors each and I’m struck once again by the size of this place. “Just you and Sammy stay here?” I ask, voice echoing around me.

“Cas has a room, too,” he says, nonchalantly—as if it’s no big news that not only is he _friends_ with an _angel_ but is apparently _living_ with one. “And we’ve had a couple of other people stay in the past, but for right now, it’s only the three of us.” Guess that means neither Sam or I have found a girl crazy enough to handle our lifestyle eight years down the line.

At last, other Dean opens one of the ridiculously heavy steel doors—this one leading to the massive garage. My eyes skim, impressed, over several car-like shapes under dropcloths but then I see _her._ And I figure that even if I did have a woman in the future, there’s no way she would cause my breath to catch every damn time I saw her the way Baby does.

“Built her up almost from scratch a few more times since you last saw her, but she’s a tough girl,” my other self says with just as much reverence. I instantly give him some points for having good taste.

I take the points back when I realize he’s insisting on driving this time.


	4. 2016's Dean POV

_2016’s Dean POV_

No one else would notice how on edge Cas is, but I can feel his impatience for answers without looking at him, like a buzz beneath the skin, so I try to give the whole car the Spark Notes version.

“Uh, Amara is a…a relative of Cas’s,” I say, making the executive decision that if my past self isn’t fully on board with angels yet, the idea of God, let alone God’s _sister_ is really not gonna go down well. “She was almost-accidentally about to end the world…” OK, I am saying this in the worst way possible and now there’s really no way to stop. “And so, I got loaded up with a bunch of souls that were set to explode inside me and take us both out. But, uh, she and her brother ended up having a talk—and she realized that the destruction of all life on Earth was not really what she wanted, so everything is cool now. Also, I think she brought you two here as a parting gift for me.”

There is a long pause.

“I don’t even know where to _start,_ boy.”

“Look, Bobby. It’s a lot. And I know it’s a lot. But that’s just how our lives _are._ The crazy part is—if I wasn’t thinking about how all this sounds to you guys—this wouldn’t even seem all that strange to me.”

“I _am_ curious why she thought you would want to be visited by your past. Or why she picked that particular moment in time to steal them from. Without Sam even?” Cas’s eyebrows pull together in what counts as a frown for him.

“I was wondering if—if she wanted to give me a way to change what happened. I mean, I’ve made a lot of mistakes, Man. There’s a lot of things I wish went down differently.”

“Is meeting me one of the things you wish to change?” the angel asks, frowning more deeply.

“Don’t be an idiot, Cas,” I say, meeting his eyes in the rearview mirror so he knows I’m serious. “She probably just timed it to the start of the Apocalypse stuff is all.”

“Did you say _‘Apocalypse’_?” Bobby asks with the subtlety of a battering ram.

“Yes, Apocalypse. Yes, like the one from Revelations. Yes, we stopped it. Mostly.”

Cas hums thoughtfully. “I suppose when Amara had me captured, she used my heart to reach out to you in the bunker. Since these two were trying to summon me, it’s possible the two intentions coincided and that’s why they were pulled from that day.”

“She did _what_ now?” I demand, fighting the urge to turn around in my seat to face him.

Suddenly, there is a _pressure_ in my mind, like an instant hangover—and even though I can tell my vision isn’t affected, I still have to try way too hard to see the road because all my attention is being focused inward.

_She was torturing Lucifer to try to get him to call for Chuck, but when he wouldn’t break, she knocked him unconscious. Since I was then serving as a lower consciousness within the vessel, this brought my mind forward temporarily. She then used our connection to find you instead and deliver her message that way, as I’m sure you remember._

As he talks—thinks—whatever, I can also see the images he’s describing. Amara in her favored black dress, reaching out to Cas’s chest with nail-polished covered fingers until her palm settles against his heart with a visible jolt of energy.

 _Since when can you project stuff into my mind?_ I think at him, wondering if he can feel my guilt over the feed too. I should have done more—sooner—to get Lucifer out of Cas. But even though I remembered wanting to, all of my emotions were kind of stunted with Amara around. Now that she’s left the planet, whatever hold she had on me, brought on by the lingering effects of the Mark of Cain, was finally gone.

 _It’s not that dissimilar from visiting your dreams. However, it’s hard at my current power level and especially when you’re awake, so I can’t do it often. I just figured…_ He flicks his eyes sideways.

I nod in understanding. By the looks of things, Bobby and other Me definitely know something’s up, but they’re not mentioning it. A few verses of _Stairway to Heaven_ fill in the silence while we pass yet another cow farm.

“So. Angels,” Bobby says at last—a statement and a question at the same time.

For the next half an hour, Cas explains the different classes of angel—and I learn for the first time that, as a seraph, he’s considered just below the archangels in rank. And even though I feel antsy about it, he then immediately launches into a discussion of their weaknesses—from angel blades to sigils. For the most part, I don’t interrupt—just telling my younger self to cool it and let Cas explain once vessels are brought up.

Cas wraps up by giving a general description of his abilities—healing, smiting, dream-walking, optional mind-reading.

“Time travel. Don’t forget time travel. You think you’ll be able to give these guys a lift back home?” _After we decide how much information we want to give them._

“Dean, I…time traveling is an extension of flying. I haven’t been able to do that since…”

So, apparently, it _wasn’t_ just Amara making me an inattentive asshole. Great to know.

“Don’t worry about it, Cas,” I say, quickly. “I mean, Henry’s time travel spell should be around the bunker somewhere. We’ll work it out.”

“We’re staying to help find Sam first,” Other Me insists, looking like he expects an argument—and I hope it’s just that I know his face so well, but I don’t find his glare to be intimidating at _all._ Instead, he just looks young and kinda—cute? Like angry puppy cute. And that’s just not right.

“Calm down,” I say, edging the odometer up by a few miles per hour. “Of course, Sammy first.”

A tall guy wearing denim-over-denim has his back turned to us, working on the engine of the SUV that was in the surveillance video.

“Jamie Ross?” Cas asks, as we all step through the open garage door.

“Who’s asking?”

Before I can even blink, the angel has closed the distance between them. His posture is relaxed and loose—a dangerous sign for anyone who knows Cas. But it’s clear this guy has no real idea who he’s messing with. “The blonde woman you drove yesterday. What was her name?”

Jamie smirks. Just a little, so he probably thought it went unnoticed. “Blonde? Sorry, mate, you got the wrong--”

Without any warning, Cas grabs Jamie by his overshirt and headbutts him. When he pulls back to do it a second time, I can see the guy’s mouth and nose are bloody.

“ _Cas!_ ” I speak up, hoping to pull him back a little—not that I really think he’s going to do anything drastic.

“Blonde. Name. Now,” he presses Jamie again, but I can tell that he heard me.

“I-I-I don’t know her name.”

“What _do_ you know?”

As all this is going down, I watch my doppelganger out of the corner of my eye. I haven’t spent much time wondering what he thinks about all this—or what he thinks about me—beyond making sure he wasn’t about to shoot me or Cas or run off with Baby. And yet, as he takes in this scene—this badass side of Cas that is just as much him as politely thanking waitresses at diners and waxing poetic about the dying bee population—I can sense a newfound respect growing. And even though it has nothing to do with me, I can’t help but feel quietly smug.


	5. 2008's Dean POV

_2008’s Dean POV_

I shift, uneasily, on my vinyl chair. Not only is Sam _missing,_ but the driver confirmed he’d been _shot,_ and here we were, grabbing _pastries_ at a local farmer’s stand.

“Oh, quit your fidgeting,” Bobby says, with what I am choosing to interpret as fond exasperation.

“We should be doing _something._ ”

“Other you is looking up information on the plane the bastards flew in on. And we got a clear view to the vet’s office for when the doc who operated on Sam’s leg shows up. We’ll get ‘im, kid…. Just calm down.”

I casually look over my shoulder. My doppelganger is still out of sight making his call and the angel went to fetch us coffee—which is really just fuckin’ weird. But it means that this is the first chance Bobby and I have had to be alone since the barn. “What do you think of all this, really? ‘Cause I’m still wondering if we took a bat to the head somewhere. Time travel, Bobby? And angels? If they were real, why haven’t we heard of this happening to _anyone else_ before.”

“There was a time not too long ago when most hunters believed demons didn’t exist either, but now they’re popping up faster than McDonalds. And there’s just as much lore about angels as there is about demons. The point is I don’t think we’re in a position to say anything isn’t _real._ ”

“And what do you think about _him?_ About them?”

“I think the angel said it best. He’s you, but not you as you are right now. To be honest, he’s someone I wasn’t sure you’d ever get the chance to be.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

The older hunter sighs. “I never tried to convince you to get out of hunting—because I just didn’t think it was possible. And the fact you’re still doing it almost a decade from now—I’m more surprised that you’re still _alive_ than that you’re in the game. But even with all that, he seems…settled. Not at peace, exactly. I’m willing to bet he’s lost a lot that you haven’t even found yet. But he has a place he belongs and he’s not upset about belonging there.”

I open my mouth to say—something—when a coffee is set in front of me, another in front of Bobby, and a third at Dean’s empty seat. I pick it up and sip from it automatically—only realizing after the first taste that we never told the angel our order, but he seems to have known it anyway.

I stare at him, the blue in his eyes even more startling in the sunlight that it was when I first saw him in the library. He stares right back, cocking his head, curiously.

I don’t know what to make of him yet. Other Dean had called him “family” and “friend”—and I knew I would never be one to use those words lightly. They were for Bobby and Ellen and Jo—people that I would risk my life for, sure—but, to be fair, as a hunter, you risk your life for _everybody_. The difference was I know I’d risk the world for them, too.

And I could see it—that they were close. I just didn’t _understand_ it.

Less than 12 hours ago, I was ready to gank the son of a bitch and I wasn’t even gonna to give him the chance to convince me otherwise. If John Winchester had been transported to 2016, he would _still_ be trying to kill him, regardless of what other Me said because he saw no grey when it came to the supernatural. And if something _did_ happen to Castiel right here, right now, I wouldn’t care. But other Dean would. He’d care a lot. How’d that happen? And why did this angel care so much about _him_?

A loud throat-clearing catches my attention and I realize Castiel and I have been looking at each other for a while. “What’s up?” I ask my doppelganger, who is now taking a seat between us.

“Ran the tail number that what's-his-face gave us. The plane that Evil Elsa flew in on has diplomatic registry…We won’t be able to view the flight plans unless we want to hack the State Department.”

“So, we’re pissing off other country’s governments now?”

“That’s pretty impressive since I’m guessing you’re still not fond of planes. Even been on one in the last eight years?” Bobby asks around his own cup.

“Once. Scotland. Favor for a friend,” Dean mutters, looking away—and that’s when he spots a van approaching the vet’s clinic.

It doesn’t take much to get Gregory Marion, local vet, to let us into his office. Guns can be very motivating factors. “So you took the bullet out of his leg, no questions asked?” Other Dean scoffs.

“She offered me 100 grand,” he explains. Then he looks from my doppelganger over to me. “You guys twins or something?”

“Or something.”

“You gotta understand—student loans are a bitch…”

“And kicking your face in will be priceless,” I grit. But apparently Castiel is already way ahead of me. He stalks forward, furiously, just like he did back at the garage.

“Cas, Cas, Cas,” My older self intercepts him, quickly, tugging him back by the coat sleeves—which, from everything I’ve heard about angels so far, doesn’t seem like it should do anything. “Don't hurt him. Not yet.”

“I’m with the angel on this one,” I argue, feeling my fingers tingle for the knives I had back in Hell, but clenching them into fists instead.

“All right, look, she didn't give me her name,” the vet insists, sweat building on his forehead. “When we were done, the driver bailed, I got paid, and then some other chick shows up, and they all drive away.”

“And that's everything you know?” Bobby asks, with raised eyebrows.

He’s about to lie to us, I can tell.

“Yeah. Totally.”

Other Dean holds Cas back a second time while Bobby restrains me.

“Does anything about these guys look like they’re _not_ gonna mess you up?” My doppelganger demands.

“Oh, oh, aah! I have her phone number! Okay? Okay, look, look, look. Look, I don't know where they are, but she called me a couple hours ago—a few hours ago, asking about the sedative I gave the guy. So...I've got her phone number.”


	6. 2016's Dean POV

_2016’s Dean POV_

I can tell that past Dean ain’t happy I’m handling the call, not him—but I don’t really care. All I care about is finding this British bitch and getting my brother back. “Oh, you think you can run from me?” I tell her. “Try it. Because when I find you—and I will find you—if he is not in one piece, I will take you apart. You understand me?” She hangs up then, but it’s only a matter of time before I’m looking her in the face—watching it dawn on her what a terrible mistake she’s just made messing with a Winchester. I bend the phone in half until it breaks, letting bits of glass rain down on the floor.

All four of us troop out to the Impala.

“What now?” Bobby asks, one hand on the roof.

“We got her number. Let's head back to the bunker, and we'll put a trace on it,” I say, getting into the car.

Baby rumbles approvingly once we’re out of town and on the open highway. The wind in my face from the open window does me some good too.

“He’s gonna be fine,” I tell my mini Me after several minutes of letting him nurse his anger like it’s a glass of whiskey.

“You know, for a second there, on the phone, you _almost_ sounded like me—but now you’re back to drumming along to Blue Oyster Cult? Want to make any more pit stops for _coffee?_ Or how about just to stop and smell the roses? Even the _angel_ seemed more motivated to get answers back there than you were.”

I don’t think this kid has realized yet that if I break his arm, I can just have Cas fix it afterward and it will do absolutely nothing to _me._ “Listen up. I’ve been where you are—so later, if you want to blame this little tantrum on Hell, on your Daddy issues—you’re not going to get any sympathy from me. But you…you have _no idea_ what I’ve gone through, since I was last you. With Sammy. With all of it.

“And do you know what it’s taken me several apocalypses and more mistakes than you can imagine to learn? To _trust_ my brother. You think he’s the smart one—but you don’t ever let him think for himself—and you won’t for several years yet. And it does a lot more to hurt him than help him.

“Now, when I say he’ll be fine, it’s because he _will be_. They haven’t killed him yet, so they’re not planning to for a while. They want something and he’ll know how to string them on as long as possible until we can find him—because Cas and I always _do._ The same way he always finds _us_ when it’s our asses being strung up in a dungeon somewhere. So either do something useful to help out or shut up, but don’t you dare say that I don’t care about Sam just because I’ve finally realized he’s a goddamn adult!”

I wait for anyone else to speak up.

“Oh, I’m not touching this conversation with a ten-foot pole,” Bobby says, pulling his cap low over his eyes like he’s preparing to take a nap. “You’re both idjits as far as I’m concerned.”

I meet eyes with Cas.

 _You know I don’t like it when you talk negatively about yourself,_ he says into my mind, sending a hint of amusement along with it.

I snort, but my worse half did make _one_ good point. _Hey, I know I told you to look after Sammy before I left. But that doesn’t make this your fault or whatever. Just in case you’ve been feeling guilty._

I feel his mind retreat without an answer, but I figure that’s a conversation to have later.

“Here,” I mutter, tossing my phone into my younger self’s lap, when my anger has lowered down to embers.

“What’s this for?” he asks, flipping it around a couple of times before successfully getting the lock screen to turn on.

“Pictures. You can look at ‘em if you want.”

“What’s the password?”

And, OK, I’m still a little pissed. “You’re me,” I grin. “Figure it out.”

It’s 1967, but he tries my birthday, Sam’s birthday, Mom’s birthday, the day Dad died, and the day and year we lost our virginity before he gets it.

From there, I can tell exactly how long it takes him to access the photo files because he immediately says, “You haven’t done something about that hair yet?”

“He gets thrown into stuff enough. At this point, I consider it protective padding for his giant head.”

“Maybe he wouldn’t get hurt so much if he could see past his luxurious tresses….” He pauses. “He looks…good though…Even bigger somehow. If that’s even possible.”

“Yeah, gotta stop feeding him Wheaties for breakfast.”

He chuckles, darkly, thumb swiping through other pictures. “You have a cop friend?”

“Jody?” I ask, when he flashes it to me. “You know Jody.”

“I’m pretty sure I don’t.”

“I believe your first real acquaintance revolved around the omens in Sioux Falls, so it won’t happen for him for another year,” Cas inserts from the back.

“Wow,” I say, leaning back in the seat. “Feels like we’ve been friends with Jody since forever.”

“Sioux Falls? You’re not talking about Jody _Mills,_ are you?” Bobby says because, _of course,_ he was only pretending to be asleep.

“Got it in one,” I say, as my doppelganger tosses the phone back to him. “She’s a hunter now.”

“No kidding,” he murmurs, squinting at the photo. “I don’t even want to think about what prompted that.”

The Dead coming back to life. Karen, humming, while making an endless series of pies, not yet realizing that Bobby was going to have to shoot her again. Little Owen covered in his father’s blood. “No,” I croak. “No, I really don’t want to either.”

Should we tell them? It’s not like I’d kept tight-lipped about the future so far, but I hadn’t said anything yet that seemed like it would change how events played out. But if we started talking about our friends, the ones we’d lost, was there any part of me that could keep quiet when I could save them instead? When I could save _Bobby?_

“Who’s the redhead?” the older hunter mentions from the back seat and I wince.

“That’s…uh, Charlie. That’s Charlie.”

Younger me quickly takes the phone back.

“Girlfriend?” he asks, interestedly.

“God, no.”

That gets me a weird look—but I throw one right back. Because the idea that a past version of me would have even _considered_ hitting on Charlie is disturbing on so many levels.

“She’s like the little sister you never wanted. Also, she’s so far from swinging your way, she’s facing away from the field.”

That, at least, he seems to understand. Suddenly, memories come flooding back. _Later, bitches_ and _loyal_ _handmaiden_ and Star Wars movie marathons and trips to the bar to pick up chicks together. And this look she’d sometimes get in her eye—like she knew something about me that I didn’t—and she was waiting impatiently for me to figure it out. Maybe now, I never would.

I met Charlie during one in a series of the worst years of my life—and she made it better. So much better. And her death made last year so much worse.

I open my mouth to say something, anything, so that this young version of me never has to know what it was like to find her body. And that’s when the car hits us.


	7. 2008's Dean POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean & Cas reunion tonight made me happy, so I'm posting a bonus chapter for this week.

_2008’s Dean POV_

“Uggghnghgg” is the first thing I hear when I regain consciousness. Maybe I was the one who said it. It’s hard to know when the pounding in my brain is so loud.

The impact sent all my thoughts flying in different directions, like balls in a game of pool, and now they’re still bouncing off the walls, smacking into each-other, careening off again in new directions.

 _It smells,_ I register, as more of my senses come online. Like fertilizer and burning rubber—only the second one wasn’t there before I got knocked out. _Skidding tires make that smell._

A few other thoughts connect, coming to rest beside each-other this time, and I remember that someone ran into the Impala. Suddenly, the future seems a lot like the past—me, Dad, and Sammy driving along a dark highway on our last night together.

“Dean!” A voice rumbles over me, full of concern. And that’s when I realize for the first time that my head is in my doppelganger’s lap. I sit up, woozily, so that Castiel can get to my older self but, to my surprise, his hands follow me, gently assessing my bleeding forehead.

“You got this?” Other Dean asks, prepared to get out of the car.

I feel, rather than see, the angel nod.

Tingling cold flows through me, chased instantly by warmth—and I would have moved away from the fingers creating it just out of surprise—but they withdraw first, leaving only the last traces of heat behind.

“What was--”

“You’re healed now. I--”

There is a muffled shout and then the sound of a fist connecting from outside the car.

“I’ll take care of Bobby. You go--” Castiel says, turning his trenchcoated back to me. I have my door opened within the second, almost spilling out of the car, having underestimated how healed “healed” meant. It wasn’t just the cut on my head that had disappeared—or the likely bruised ribs I had. The ache in my knee and the twinge in my back I’ve had since crawling out of my own grave are gone. Hell, I feel _rested._

Which is good because a hand wearing brass knuckles is swinging at my face. I dodge enough that it brushes against my cheek rather than decks me in the nose. But then my arm is snatched from my side and pinned behind me, my head shoved downward.

“Why are there _two of you_?” a woman’s British accent says right next to my ear. But then Other Me re-approaches and I am dropped, unceremoniously, to the ground, a foot to my back when I try to stand up again. From here, I can see that her brass knuckles are carved with more of those sigils—like the one written in blood on the bunker wall—and that they are faintly glowing. Which makes me feel slightly better about us getting our asses kicked.

She and my other half square off again, leaving me aching, but no longer restrained. I force myself onto my knees and then into a wobbly standing position—when I hear a gun fire.

The woman grimaces but stays mostly silent as her left leg collapses underneath her. Rather than turning to look at Bobby and the gun barrel that it still smoking, I lock eyes with my doppelganger—and as one, we throw all our body weight on her in a football tackle. She makes a move to knee me in the nuts and she manages another bruising blow against other Dean’s shoulder, but then Castiel comes over and presses two solemn fingers to her forehead and all the fight goes out of her.

Her body, which had seemed rock-hard during the fight now feels uncomfortably soft beneath me and I scramble up, wiping my hands on my pants.

“Did you…kill her?” I ask the angel, as the older version of myself spits blood out of his mouth.

“She’s unconscious,” he responds, simply.

“Good…I feel like asking her some questions,” I say, touching my cheek and wincing.

“Let me help with that.” He raises his palm to me but makes no move to come further and I realize he’s letting it be my choice. After all, I just watched those hands send someone to sleep with a touch—there was probably a reason to be cautious. But screw it. I hated when my face was messed up—made me too conspicuous. And I was getting the impression that even though Cas was definitely one scary SOB to other people, he wouldn’t hurt me.

I am expecting the sensation this time—my body almost looking forward to the ice water filling me up, followed by reassuring warmth. But, this time, it feels less like real heat and more like a swirl of _relief-affection-protection_.

Cas moves on from me quickly in a rush to heal other Dean and I get to see it from the outside for the first time. There is less of a fuss than I was expecting based on how it feels. One second, he looked like something that should be hanging in a meat freezer—the next, he is as ruggedly handsome as ever.

Cas, on the other hand, looks instantly drained—and other Dean doesn’t hesitate to reach for the angel’s arm and sling it over his own shoulder. “Healing this many people, this quickly—right after all the Amara stuff—he’s running low on mojo,” he says by way of explanation. “He’s riding shotgun for a bit.”

I don’t argue—just help Bobby load 007’s annoying cousin into the trunk after stripping her of her weapons and cell phone—while Other Me, done with helping Cas into the Impala, hides her car.

“Last call was to Aldrich, Missouri. We're guessing Sam's probably around there,” we tell him when he comes out of the woods.

“The bunker’s only a half hour away. We should go there first—see if we can get her to talk.”

I don’t like the delay but agree it’s better not to go in blind. For the first time since Bobby and I got here, I don’t feel out of my depth. We have a problem, but we also have a course of action.

 _Hold on there, Sammy,_ I think. _Calvary’s coming._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I consider this chapter to be my first real divergence from canon, since, for the most part, I have kept to the original Season 12 plot, switching out Mary for young Dean and Bobby. However, this scene always really bothered me in the original, so I changed it for several reasons:
> 
> a) There are four people here, not three. I don't care who Ms. Watts is, those are bad numbers for her (plus, in this case, she is caught off guard by multiple Deans).  
> b) If forcibly removing Mary from Season 12 isn't enough of an indication, I don't like her (admittedly, a lot of that is due to her later actions, but still). I think Dean and Cas were made to look weak in this scene so she could look strong and I don't dig that. (Female empowerment shouldn't come from weakening men).  
> c) It made no sense to me that Cas didn't heal Mary immediately when he was checking to see if she was knocked out. And he would definitely heal Dean right away if he was injured.  
> d) Mary killed Ms. Watts in the original. While Team Free Will has been shown to kill people, they still tend to hesitate more with humans--and in this case, they're trying to find Sam, so injuring and interrogating her makes more sense to me.
> 
> Sorry if this sounds like a defensive rant but I felt like I should explain my reasoning here. Events from this point on will be altered as a result.


	8. 2008's Bobby POV

_2008’s Bobby POV_

Just ‘cause I don’t go out on many hunts anymore doesn’t mean I don’t remember what an interrogation is like. Sometimes, if you ask real nice, the vampire or demon will tell you somethin’—usually, whatever curse words or lies come to their head first—and then you ask them again with a bucket of holy water and a silver knife and they still won’t squawk, but their eyes show you they’re thinking about it.

Now, I knew from the first time we laid eyes on this broad that she wasn’t going to be an easy nut to crack. But apparently, having an angel on your side changes a lot of things. I look at the older version of Dean. _A lot of things._

Pretty much as soon as she was conscious, Castiel—“Cas” as both Deans are calling him, so I might as well—laid his hands on either side of her head. And then his eyes lit up from behind like he was some kinda Jack-o-Lantern—and we suddenly knew exactly which house Sam was being kept in—by the British Men of Letters, apparently, in the worst case of being nosy neighbors I’d ever heard of. Sure, hunters could be more organized, but we didn’t need a goddamn homeowner’s association.

I was wondering what we were going to do with Ms. Union Jack when a touch on the forehead from Cas put her back to sleep. “I’ve wiped all her memories of us, her organization, and her martial arts training. She should remain unconscious until we can drop her off somewhere secure.”

“Well, aren’t you a regular Swiss Army Knife,” the younger Dean smirks, hefting a duffel bag full of clothes his other self had given him. I’ll be stuck wearing some of Sam’s flannels and the same pair of jeans I showed up in for the foreseeable future.

“I…don’t understand,” Cas says, tilting his head to the side.

“He just means you’re useful to have around.”

“Oh… Thank you?” His eyes flicker over to his Dean, quickly, making sure that is the right response and I barely stop myself from rolling my eyes and saying, _Well, ain’t that adorable._

We all head back towards the Impala, Cas carrying the Watts woman like she weighs nothing.

“Why didn’t we have him carry her in again?” 2008 Dean says, probably remembering the way he huffed and puffed getting her into the bunker.

“Because you let the angel do everything for you, you get flabby,” the older Dean points out. “Besides, Cas’s batteries had to recharge. Probably do again after using all that grace. You think six hours in the car will be enough, Sunshine?”

“I’ll be well enough to heal Sam, Dean.”

“Want you to be OK, too, dumbass.”

“Even if I get tired, I’ll recover.” And that’s pretty much the end of the conversation.

It becomes clear pretty soon after we get into the car that we all need rest. It had been nighttime when Dean and I decided to set a trap for Castiel, the mystery demon, and we’d been going non-stop since then. The older Dean must be equally exhausted, but insisted he’d be good to drive. Did I believe he was fine? ‘Course not. But I believed he wouldn’t get us killed on the highway and that was enough comfort to allow me to drift off.

When I wake up, it is to the low murmur of voices. Now, I know these future boys haven’t been telling me everything—and without the knowledge they have at their disposal, I just have to assume it’s for a good reason—so I ain’t been pushing it. But it’s a stupid hunter—and probably a soon-to-be-dead one—who closes his ears when there’s whispering going on—so I instinctively make sure my breathing stays even so as to not startle them into silence.

“Slow down there, Cas…layman’s terms…”

The angel takes a stabilizing breath, preparing to start over from the beginning. “When the car was hit…I was…rush to heal…I didn’t think about…healed him too well.”

“Healed him _too_ well. What does that even _mean_?”

“The other Dean’s scar…my handprint on his shoulder. It’s…gone.”

“Okaaaay…” the future hunter draws the word out like it’s damn string cheese. “And you’re feeling—what?—sentimental?”

I could slap that boy upside the head sometimes.

“We haven’t discussed how much you want to tell them about the future—I knew you would want to wait for Sam, at least,” Castiel says in a low rush. “And up to this point, I assumed that if you two decided to keep the timeline intact, I could erase their memories before we sent them back to 2008. But now…”

“Now, I’ve lost my ‘Property of Castiel’ soul tattoo two years early and you think that’s gonna mess stuff up?”

I assume the pause is Cas nodding.

“And you really think someone’s gonna notice? I mean most of the people who saw me naked in those years would probably have been fine with me not having a big ass handprint on my arm…And past Me will probably just come up with a stupid excuse for why it’s missing…like it disappeared because we met or something.”

The angel murmurs something that is lost under the low hum of the radio.

“What was that?” Dean asks.

“Dean, I know that in the years in question, you found my…attachment to you to be ‘creepy,’ but as it is, I have no doubt my past self will sense if it’s missing…. I… _He_ was quite fond of that ‘soul tattoo’ as you put it.”

We pass several miles in silence.

I risk opening my eyes a bit. The sky has taken on the golden hue that means sunset is right around the corner. In my peripheral vision, I see that my version of Dean is either still fast asleep or he’s being a better faker than I am.

“And you think…that will be enough to change…well, anything?” Future Dean speaks, at last.

“I can’t say for sure how I would have reacted if your mark had been missing. But the logical conclusion to draw would be that an angel—another angel—had healed it. And if you claimed not to know how it happened, I might have believed you were hiding information from me. Not feeling like I could trust you might have prevented me from trusting you as much in return.”

“And you can’t just…uh…rebrand him?” Every few seconds, he glances at the angel sitting beside him and I wonder if I should take back my assessment about him being able to keep focused on the road.

“That wasn’t just a surface mark…It was on every layer of you, down to your soul, put there as I was rebuilding you from molecules. I would have to take you apart to put you back together again—which is something I don’t have the power for without the support of Heaven….Nor is it something that I…I’m not sure I _could_ do that to you now, Dean.”

“Well,” the hunter sighs, readjusting his grip on the steering wheel. “Maybe Sammy will have an idea.”

I figure that might be closing arguments. I’m about to pretend to “wake up” and demand we get some grub when a slight tension warns me that the two men in the front are about to have a ‘moment’ that will probably make my tooth ache. And, hell, I’m not getting in the middle of that.

“You have a vote too, you know…,” Dean says, casually. “You said that telling them about the future was up to me and Sammy to decide, but you’re one-third of Team Free Will and this shit affects you, too. Maybe more than either of us.”

“I--”

“ _Do_ you? Want to change things?”

“Dean…You _know_ what I’ve done. How many angels I’ve killed. How many times I’ve hurt you. Of course, I want to take that back—but the risks…. And I hope you know I didn’t remove his mark on _purpose_ —I would never try to _force_ you…”

“Hey, hey—I know you wouldn’t, Cas. I wasn’t thinking that at all….” The angel’s shoulders relax slightly at the reassurance.

“Cas?”

“Yes, Dean?”

“Just for the record, I kinda miss the handprint sometimes.” They share a smile—and I think it’s the first one I’ve seen on the angel’s face since we got here.

As their talk ends for the third time, I think over what I’ve learned. Most of it is just a confirmation of what I already suspected. Those idjits are so gone on each other, it’s like they thought the sun shined outta the other’s ass.

Doubt Dean is going to do anything about it, though—if he even realizes what’s going on there. That boy is smarter than he gives himself credit for—but that doesn’t stop him from being dumber than a box of rocks. Even before time travel seemed like a legitimate possibility, he’s been the kind to get so hung up on the past that he can’t see what’s right in front of him.

As for the rest of it, I don’t envy the decision those three are facing. Not one bit. If I got the chance to change what happened to Karen… God, I can’t even imagine. But if she hadn’t died, I woulda never become a hunter, woulda never gotten to be there for those boys….

It wasn’t a choice that anyone should have to make.


	9. 2008's Dean POV

_2008’s Dean POV_

“No way in hell I’m waiting on the sidelines!” I hiss at the other Dean from the copse of woods next to where they’re keeping Sam. Night has fallen—muggy and cricket-filled—and my sweaty shirt clings to the small of my back in an annoying way I could live without. “You, of all people, should know that I ain’t about sitting still and looking pretty.”

“Just think. For a _second_ ,” he whispers angrily back, gesturing towards the house. “That, in there is enemy territory. Do you know what I _don’t_ want my enemies figuring out? That my past self is taking a vacation to 2016. ‘Cause if they kill you, it’s _two for the price of one!_ ”

He pinches his nose between two fingers. “Look, I know you don’t want to hear this, but you’re… important. I don’t know why all the shit that has happened in the last eight years required an RSVP from the Winchesters, but it _did._ And you need to get back to do all the stuff. To be there for Sam. To…to save the world. You get me?”

“I’m afraid that I won’t be able to go with you either, Dean,” Cas interrupts. He says it apologetically, but still with a growl like the Impala. “Angel warding,” he explains.

Other Me bites off a curse. “OK, I’ll try to take care of that.”

He calms himself with a breath before turning to me again. “I’m not forbidding you from going in there. But I’m asking you to be my backup, alright? I mean, they already sent Miss Trunchball after us.” Cas tilts his head to the side but doesn’t interrupt. “Chances are, it’s a trap.”

I meet his eyes. There’s just enough moonlight for me to see that they are as stubborn and green as my own, except he has the benefit of knowing that he’s right here. _“Fine,”_ I say, biting off the word. “But twenty minutes, if you’re not out…we’re coming in to get you.”

“Cas’ll know if I need help.” He glances, hesitatingly at Bobby, before asking him to stay, also. Then, after double-checking his gun, he walks around the edge of the woods, scouting for the best access point until we can’t see him anymore.

The wildlife all get much louder in his absence, like they were waiting for the excuse to start gossiping.

“Sooooo…” I say—just to say something. “Seen any good movies lately?”

Bobby snorts, shifting his weapon to rest against his other shoulder but doesn’t answer.

“The last movie you insisted I watch was called ‘Tombstone’,” Cas responds, after a moment’s thought. He then makes a ridiculous attempt to pitch his voice even lower, bowing his head and grumbling, “I’m your Huckleberry.”

It’s so unexpected a laugh bursts out of me—stomach muscles clenching in the process—and I wonder when was the last time I was caught off guard by something that wasn’t trying to kill or torture me. “You’re a weird dude, you know that?”

“So you like to tell me. But you also told me to never change, so I choose to view it as a compliment.”

Something about _that_ brings me up short. “We, uh,” I search my brain for the missing question I want to ask, “Do that a lot? Have movie night?”

His eyes smile even if the rest of his face doesn’t. “Yes. You seem equally excited and disturbed every time I don’t understand one of your references. But then, when we watch the movie, you spend so much time talking over it, I still don’t always get them afterward. Admittedly, you’ve also told me to ‘Shut up, Cas’”—this, he says, complete with air quotes—“for attempting to explain elements that are historically or medically inaccurate, but you only seem to mind if I do it for cowboy movies or Dr. Sexy.” He pauses for a moment. “Apologies. We were discussing movies and Dr. Sexy is a TV show.”

It’s the most I’ve ever heard him talk at one time—and I have to remind myself over again that this is an _angel,_ who, instead of sitting on a cloud or playing a harp, is indulging my crap viewing habits.

“What about Sam? You, uh, do stuff together?”

“He joins us for movie nights occasionally.”

“Anything else?”

“We both enjoy research more than you do, so we often end up doing that together. And we like to attend the farmer’s market on Sundays.”

“Good…That’s good,” I murmur, not really knowing what I mean.

“Dean,” Cas’s voice turns sharp, eyes suddenly intense.

“What is it? What’d I do?”

“No,” he says, facing the house, looking pained. _“Dean.”_

“Yeah, real waste,” I hear my own voice say through the open basement door—his pain audible even through the sarcasm.

The other Me had apparently knocked out four of the guards in this place before getting caught. And Bobby and I had made quick dispatch of four more—hopefully, the last of them.

"It seems you apes have never read a single book,” an almost-bored sounding voice answers the other Dean. “The Men of Letters has a long tradition of intellectual excellence. In London, we undertake exhaustive studies of even the most arcane topics. For example, parts of the body most sensitive to intense pain.”

She’s giving a bad guy monologue. How stereotypical.

Now, in my experience, all steps have squeaky stairs. So I don’t even try to sneak. As she begins listing, “The ear drum. Decaying tooth. Below the belt, of course. And my favorite—under the eyelid”, I take them three at a time, feeling more than a little satisfaction when I aim my gun at her blonde ponytail. Then I un-cock and re-cock my gun just for the sound effect.

She whips around with fear she doesn’t quite manage to hide in time. “Dean…Winchester?”

“Expecting someone else?”

“Dean?!” Another voice exclaims—and it doesn’t matter if it’s said with a three-year-old’s lisp or a twelve-year-old’s awkward crack or a man’s rumble—it’s a voice I’d know anywhere. “Heya, Sammy. Gonna admit, you’ve looked better. Must be getting old.” Because when else is a big brother going to be able to make that joke?

“We’ll explain later,” Me Sr. tells Sam from his place chained to the wall as I walk the last few steps until I reach cement floor. “Where’s, uh…?” His eyes finish the sentence for him.

“He’s taking care of the anti-angel graffiti.” Out of my peripheral vision, I spot a set of keys on a nearby table.

“On the ground. Now,” I order the blonde, edging my way toward them. I grab them without looking and, still moving slowly and deliberately, hand them over to my other half, who gets to work on his handcuffs.

“Hey. Did I stutter?” I press in closer to the Brit, once again indicating the ground—and that turns out to be a mistake. She jerks my gun toward the ceiling just as I set it off and then—making a sound like a reverse hiccup—I suddenly can’t breathe.

Dimly, I realize the blonde’s hand is bleeding and she is holding it out to me, palm up—some kind of spell—and I claw at my neck, trying to release a grip that isn’t really there—but which is squeezing me within an inch of my life and still pressing tighter. Probably more like half an inch now.

“Kill the spell now. I’m not kidding.” My other self says with menace, holding the gun that I’d dropped.

“Shoot me and this spell will finish him. Finish you...Now give me the gun.”

My vision is starting to darken around the edges, like I’m watching this whole thing through a pair of binoculars that’s losing focus. But that doesn’t stop the wheeze of protest I give as the other Dean approaches to hand the gun to the woman.

“Dean!” Sammy exclaims, to him or me I don’t know.

But suddenly, oxygen comes flooding back, burning its way down my throat like something a hella a lot stronger.

“It's okay. She was using a Chinese mind-control technique. Hard to do when you're unconscious. Turns out this ape did read a book or two,” Other Dean says, while I am bent over at the waist, still gasping. Dimly, I recognize the sounds of him unlocking Sammy’s chains as well.

Behind me, the step squeaks, just as obnoxiously as I expected it to. I lift myself up, just in time to catch Sam’s expression at seeing Bobby and Cas peering down at us. “OK, I am definitely still drugged,” he says, rubbing his fingers into his temples.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because Team Free Will got to Sam's location quicker due to the changed events in the car crash scene, Mick does not show up in time to talk to them.


	10. 2016's Sam POV

_2016’s Sam POV_

I close my eyes for just a second, but when I open them again…Yup, still two Deans, eating two identical double-bacon cheeseburgers, same bit of sauce lingering at the left corner of their mouths.

_I’ve seen weird. This shouldn’t be that weird._

Cas pushes his uneaten side of French fries over to them and they both flash full-mouthed grins at him. “Thanks, Cas,” they chime together.

_This is SO weird._

So far, I’d had twelve hours to get used to the idea. Admittedly, most of it had been spent sleeping. Then, I lost ten minutes of my life arguing that there was _no way in hell_ I was sitting in the backseat of the Impala with two full grown men. They eventually agreed I got shotgun, but figuring the rest out took another half an hour.

Finding a booth in the restaurant that fit all of us was equally hard and resulted in both Deans on one side, me and Bobby on another, and Cas in a chair pulled up against the open side.

“Something I don’t get,” I say, spearing a piece of chicken from my salad. “There were a lot of factors that went into getting Amara released in the first place—a lot of choices _we_ made. Why would she let us alter the past if it might get her locked up again?”

Cas opens his mouth to reply, but then our waitress stops by to top off our waters. Young Dean gives her an appraising once-over, followed by a flirty wink. _Yup, I’ve definitely not missed that._

Don’t get me wrong, the Dean of today is still shameless—but only when he’s not too busy bickering with Cas about what would happen if a werepire bit an elephant or “How the fuck did the Bee Gees get into Heaven?” or whether there were more variations of the Bible or Batman when the waitress or some chick at the bar comes over.

Our server smiles back at past Dean—because they all do—before leaving to fetch some pie for the table.

“You remember that alternative universe that I had Balthazar send you to, Sam?” Cas asks, once she’s gone.

“Kinda hard to forget. Dean and I were actors and I was married to fake-Ruby.”

“What now?” young Dean asks, after slightly choking on his drink.

“Ah. Right. Um, an angel was after us because he thought that we had something of Cas’s—so, to keep him off the trail, Cas sent us to another dimension where our lives—you know, the monster hunting and everything—wasn’t real. Just part of a TV show called Supernatural. And Dean and I—or there, I guess our names were Jared and Jensen—were the stars.” Now that I think about it, that whole experience was _definitely_ weirder than there being two Deans.

“Who the hell would want to watch that?”

Older Dean snorts. “That’s what I said.”

“Anyway, Cas. I’m guessing you had a point?”

“Cas’s name was Misha,” Dean is continuing to grumble in the background. “Like, what the hell?”

“My _point_ is that every time we make a new choice, our universe splits in to two. One where we picked “yes” and the other “no”, so to speak. As a result, there are an infinite number of Sams and Deans out there—ones who made different choices.

“But there is only one God that created all of them—and only one Amara. Freeing her in any universe is enough to transcend them all—to spread her out over time and space. I doubt any choice we can make would put her back in her cage—you’re right, she just wouldn’t let us. _However,_ this also introduces the possibility that if we do change the past, it won’t affect our present. This Bobby and Dean could instead create a parallel universe with any information we give them.”

“Huh,” older Dean says, ripping the paper casing from his straw into pieces.

“But you’re not _sure_?” I press Cas, as he watches Dean too.

“No…I’m not.”

Everyone seems to mull over that quietly—the Deans even bothering to chew with their mouths closed, when Bobby says, “Wait. _God?_ ” _It is going to be such a long day._

We give the newcomers a basic run down (“Yes, there is a God. He likes to go by Chuck. He made us pancakes once and went through Dean’s porn. No, we’re not pulling your leg. Amara is actually his sister—the Darkness to His light. No, Dean, there’s nothing incest-y going on there. We think. Look, most of this doesn’t matter because he’s not around much anyway.”) By the end, Bobby looks like he could use a drink. As for Dean…“Scoot your ass. Need to use the restroom,” he tells the older version of my brother, looking pale under all his freckles.

“Me too,” I say, rising hastily, exchanging knowing looks with Cas.

I find young Dean splashing his face with water from the sink, but he quickly rights himself when he sees me. “Hey, Sammy,” he says, going for casual, as he grabs a paper towel.

“You OK? It’s fine if you’re not.”

“Chick flick moment in the john? Come on, little brother, I’m classier than that.”

I ignore him. Dean needs to know he at least tried not to have a conversation before he’s ever willing to talk.

“I--” he hesitates. “It _is_ kinda strange. You having all these inside stories with someone who’s me but not…me.”

I shove my hands in my pockets, tossing him a sympathetic smile. “Even if I were to explain them all, it’s more of a ‘you had to be there’ kind of situation….But, yeah, I get what you’re saying.”

“I just--” he balls his paper towel up and throws it, harder than necessary, at the bin. “I thought our lives were already as messed up as they were gonna get. I mean there’s been times when what we’ve been through—it’s already been too much for me. But, of course, there’s goddamn more. _Of course._ ”

He begins pacing, winding up to something big, and I let him, sending off a quick prayer to Cas to not—I repeat, _not_ —let older Dean interrupt, like he’s probably been itching to do since I came in here.

“I can tell, you know, that you guys are easing me into all this,” 2008 Dean says, when he’s facing me again. “I’m the four-year-old with tassels on their bike and freakin’ training wheels and you’re guiding me along. So the rest of it—the stuff you ain’t told me yet—must be…” He shakes his head.

I think through my response carefully. “And it doesn’t make you feel any better to see yourself out there…? Alive and still you, for the most part?”

He looks at me then, really _looks_ at me—and I wonder if he’s searching for the brother he left behind eight years ago—the one that he knows he trusts. “I don’t know what he is and what he isn’t. Sure, he _seems_ like he’s doing OK—but I’m good at that, looking OK when I’m--”

He cuts himself off and, for the first time, I really think about what this Dean has just come from. “You told me what happened in Hell,” I murmur quietly. "The first 30 years. The last ten. I’m really sorry you went through all of that for me.”

His eyes burn hot, but I think they turn liquid for just a second before he turns to pace away from me again.

“If it helps, I see through your fake-it-‘til-you-make-it expressions pretty well and you _are_ actually OK. Not saying you’ve been fine the entirety of the last eight years—but if a past version of himself popped up when Dean was _really_ losing it, he wouldn’t think twice about changing things. He’s hesitating because there’s things about his life he wants to keep.”

“Yeah,” he breathes. “That’s…yeah.”

We stand there for a minute more in companionable silence.

“It is good to see you like this, Sammy. I mean, since I got back from the Pit, you—the other you—has seemed a bit—I don’t know—but I guess I was just worried for nothing.”

I do a really bad job of not wincing. Dean raises his eyebrow, “Not nothing then?”

He knows me too well. It doesn’t matter if we don’t tell them about the future. If he and Bobby stick around enough, they’ll figure things out anyway. “We’ve been gone a while,” I hedge. “We should head back before someone starts wondering what we’re up to.”

Dean huffs but accepts my redirection. “People still don’t assume we’re gay for each other, right?” he asks, stepping around me toward the heavy fake-wood door.

I laugh. “Not really, no.” His shoulders slump, relieved. “Now-a-days, they usually think that’s you and Cas.”


	11. 2016's Dean POV

_2016’s Dean POV_

Cas twirls the kitchen knife around in his hand once before he resumes dicing up tomatoes for salsa. “Show off,” I say, accidentally bumping his shoulder as I head to the refrigerator for the ground beef.

“I don’t think you’re one to judge,” he accuses—and it’s so damn good to see _Cas_ behind those blue eyes instead of fuckin’ Lucifer. Actually, life in general is pretty good right now. Got my brother back. The world didn’t end. I didn’t go kaboom. And we’re about to have Taco Tuesday on a Sunday. By the time I catch myself humming under my breath, I just shrug and keep on doing it, pretending that I don’t catch Cas’s amused side glances.

The sound of boots on tile prompts me to turn around mid-chorus. “Got Bobby and Thing 2 all set up?” I ask Sam, as he emerges from the nearby hallway.

“They’re in 14 and 15. Plus, I gave them the basic tour.”

“How long before you think Other Me breaks into my room to have a snoop around?”

Sam snorts. “That’s probably what he’s doing now. _I’m_ waiting to see which one of them finds the dungeon first.”

We both look at each other for a moment, assessing. “Bobby,” we agree.

“Well, at least that should keep them busy long enough for us to talk,” I mutter, dumping meat into the pre-heated pan where it gives a satisfying _hiss._ I silently ask Cas to start work on some onions while it browns. Unthinkingly, he moves the cutting board further away from me—‘cause he knows my eyes will turn red like I just watched Lassie die if the juice gets on me—and I flash a small smile in gratitude.

In spite of having opened up the floor to conversation, no-one says a word until Cas is tipping his pile of onions into my pan and the air is already starting to tingle my tongue with the scent of taco seasoning.

“I have a proposal,” Cas breaks the moment at last.

“Dean probably wants to go on a date first,” Sam inserts, snagging a piece of raw green pepper to chomp on obnoxiously.

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

Cas is giving us both his signature look of confusion and I quickly clear my throat. “Don’t mind Sam. He must have gotten his head smashed harder than we thought. Whatcha got in mind?”

The angel turns away from the counter to face us more fully, running one hand down the length of his tie nervously. “I know we agreed at the motel that Dean needs to at least tell my past self that I was the one who healed the handprint on his shoulder. However, I’ve been thinking of the implications of that. I was trained to be a strategist. I’m going to be asking myself why I’m still associating so closely with the Righteous Man eight years in the future. Why I’m still on Earth instead of in Heaven.”

“So he figures out that we’re friends now. Is that really a big deal?”

“I worry that if he learns—or even suspects—the nature of our current relationship, he will actively try to take a different path.”

I pause stirring the ground beef. “Way to spare our feelings here, Buddy.”

He huffs at me, exasperated. “Dean, I’m not trying to offend you. I’m trying to make sure I don’t inadvertently set the Apocalypse back on track!”

“Dean, it looks like your stuff is burning,” Sam interrupts. “Cas, explain this to me a bit more? I’ll admit I wasn’t always paying attention to the right things that year.” As he talks, he reaches for his laptop on the counter—and I realize he’s thinking about taking _notes._ Cas glances at Sam and then back at me again—his way of saying, _At least someone is taking this seriously,_ so I make a point of ignoring them both of them while I start shredding cheese.

“The reason it is so hard to change the timeline is because people’s souls are resilient. Their experiences shape their personalities, yes, but at the heart of things, they are who they are—tending to make similar choices, even under different circumstances.

“For angels, reinventing themselves is even more difficult. We’ve had thousands, if not millions of years, existing exactly as we are—being told that the only way to do things is the way they’ve always been done. The very idea of evolution—even in a strictly metaphorical sense—is something we all instinctively fear.

“But I…” Cas pauses, and I hear the tell-tale squeak of someone shifting in their chair. “ _You_ …changed me piece by piece over that year. It was because I cared about you and saw firsthand how my orders were harming you that I first started to doubt—and then empathize—and then, eventually, act…”

I’m still facing away from the two of them—and I’m pretty sure Cas’ voice is still directed at Sam, so it’s a plural “you”, not a me “you”—but I can’t help the way my neck suddenly tingles like I’m being watched. Even though the stove is in front of me, it’s my back that feels hot.

A voice from the past says, _“I’m hunted. I’ve rebelled. And I did it—all of it—for you.”_

The kitchen goes painfully silent before I realize that part of the reason for the quiet is because I abruptly stopped cooking. I quickly reach up to grab plates, the back of the cupboard door hitting the one next to it louder than expected.

Cas clears his throat. “All that is to say, you did all the exact right things to make me rebel. However, if the angel I was on September 20, 2008 finds out who I have become now—without going on that journey? He won’t understand it. He’ll think I am a disgrace like Lucifer. He might even send himself for reconditioning if he feared he was becoming too close to you.”

One of the glasses I am taking down from a shelf slips from my grip, dropping an unnecessary extra couple of inches to the counter. “Jesus, Cas!” I exclaim, turning around finally.

His eyes quickly tell me he doesn’t appreciate the blasphemy, while mine remind him that now is not the time.

Sam’s fingers hover over his laptop keys. “So, what is it exactly you’re suggesting we do?”

“Come again?” I ask, wiping my hands on a towel and throwing it over my shoulder. The food is all done and ready to be plated, but we haven’t rung the dinner bell yet. This ain’t exactly the kind of conversation I feel like stopping midway through.

“I want to give my past self some of my memories,” Cas repeats, slowly, like he’s talking to a kid. “Not all of them, obviously—especially if we still want to preserve the timeline—but a few that show the development of our relationship. I think if he can actually _feel_ what I went through at the time—instead of just hearing about it or assuming it for himself—that he’ll ultimately make the same decisions I did.”

“Okaaaay…” I say, knowing there’s got to be another part to this. “And how exactly would you give your past self these memories?”

“I won’t be able to directly. I…would have to give them to the Other Dean and then he would have to share them with his Castiel.”

Now, math wasn’t necessarily my strong subject in school, but I can put 2 and 2 together to get 4.

“You want to download part of your brain into my brain?”

“Into your past self’s brain. I am very much hoping that since you still don’t have any of the Other Dean’s memories of this visit that you won’t get mine either.”

My stomach lurches uncomfortably at that—like I’m on a broken-down elevator that suddenly dropped a floor or two without warning.

All I can think about is Cas working with Crowley, Cas running away with the Angel Tablet, Cas letting himself get _possessed_ by Lucifer—and suddenly the happiness I had earlier knowing that my best friend was back in the driver’s seat of his own vessel is gone. “So, I get years of you keeping secrets and vanishing all the time without explanation—but you’re going to trust _that_ Dean with your brain diary?”

“I--” Cas blinks. “I thought that you might not like the plan, but I didn’t think you’d be _upset._ ”

“I’m not upset!” I yell.

“Clearly,” Sam says—then immediately holds his hands up by his ears in surrender. “Never mind, not getting involved.”

“Dean--” begins Cas, but the food’s getting cold and I tell him so, right before I leave the kitchen to hunt out the others.

Part of me knows I should probably let him say whatever it is he wants to say. Knows that this feeling in my gut is big and irrational—probably coming from the same place inside me that the Mark of Cain clung to. But it’s _there_ and I can’t deal with it and talk to Cas right now.

My steps echo just as loudly as Sam’s did as I set out in search of the person I used to be.


	12. 2016's Sam POV

_2016’s Sam POV_

“It’s _fine_ —”

“Dean—”

“No, you want to go, so go!”

My head thumps loudly against the stack of books I’d spent the last hour pulling from the library. I’d _hoped_ to be able to get some research done. After all, we were going to need to make some heavy modifications to Henry Winchester’s blood spell to make sure it would send Bobby and past Dean exactly where and when we wanted them to go when it was time to return them home.

But it’s a little hard to concentrate when your stubborn-ass brother and an angel of the lord have finally gotten past two days of giving each other the silent treatment. They’re in the kitchen and yet I swear I can _hear_ every time Cas rolls his eyes.

A flick to the back of my head has me jolting upright, but then I see it is only younger Dean, looking at me with a lazy smile.

“What’s up?” I ask, feeling the beginnings of a headache behind my temples.

But he doesn’t get a chance to speak before—

“—my fault that Lucifer—”

“So, you’re just going to drive aimlessly around the country--”

Past Dean raises his eyebrows.

“Ignore that,” I tell him, going to the effort of picking a book from the pile and opening it, half-heartedly. “They’ll get over it eventually. They always do.”

“They do that a lot then?” His question sounds casual, but I’ve also been watching him the last couple of days. While Cas and the older Dean have been avoiding each other, he and Cas have slowly started drifting into each other’s orbit more. It’s not like they’ve been hanging out, exactly—they just wind up in the same spaces more and more frequently. And when they do, Dean likes to make his most vulgar jokes and his most obscure references just to see if he can provoke Cas to have a reaction—whether it’s a smile or a glare. It’s like watching history repeat itself.

“Look,” I tell him. “I don’t want you to get the wrong impression. Dean and Cas are solid. Everyone from angels to demons has tried to use them against each other and they’ve never succeeded. In fact, outside pressure only tends to bring them closer.

“But left to their own devices…they’ve got their fair share of issues that they’ve never really worked out. So, they bicker. A lot. And it drives me completely insane—but just when I think about locking them in a room together and throwing away the key, they’re suddenly fine and in sync again. It’s…well, normal is probably not the right word for it. But normal for them.”

“So, what’s the deal this time?” he presses.

“I mean, you’ve probably overhead as much as me. I don’t really get involved in their issues.”

He crosses his arms, and the Samulet around his neck sways slightly against his moss green shirt. Somehow that, more than anything, is what makes this version of my brother look so much younger.

I sigh, recognizing the stubborn set of his shoulders. “Cas let a bad guy get away during the whole mess with Amara—and since the three of us aren’t exactly in agreement about what to do about you and Bobby, it sounds like Cas is thinking of leaving the bunker to go after him rather than just sit around waiting.

“Dean kinda hates it when Cas leaves—but he won’t ever _say_ that because he wants Cas to stay on his own. So, instead he tells Cas that the way he’s going about things is stupid and will never work. For his part, Cas worries that Dean thinks he’s a burden. And then Dean gets all angry like this—and it feels like Dean is telling him he’s useless—which makes him even more determined to earn his place here.” 

Young Dean looks at me the same way he did when I asked him for help with my trigonometry homework in 7th grade. To him, feelings probably are just another unsolvable equation.

“Hey, you asked,” I defend myself, searching the index of the book in front of me and turning to Chapter 17: Enochian Naming Sigils.

I expect him to interrupt again—because he’s _Dean_. But the skin of his forehead only furrows in concern and then he’s moving away from me towards the kitchen.

“Wait, wait,” I call out, uselessly, hurrying to follow him.

“You’re heading out?” he confronts Cas the second the pair are within eyesight and I’m somewhat surprised when the angel and the older version of my brother turn to him in sync. I swear I’ve tried to get in between their arguments a half dozen times and it’s like I’m not even there.

Cas tilts his head. “I was thinking of going hunting, yes.”

“Were you going to mention that sometime or just hope we thought you were on a really long bathroom break?”

“I--”

“Don’t have human biological reactions, yeah, yeah. Seriously, why didn’t you say something earlier?”

“I--” Cas begins again. “I’m sorry, Dean. I didn’t think you had any particular interest in where I went. You’re well over a year from seeking out my presence—even for help on cases. Most of the time when I showed up in 2008, you were rather irritated with me.”

“Cut the crap. You should know that I don’t spend time with anybody I don’t want to. And I—he—certainly doesn’t call people his ‘best friend’ just ‘cause he’s itching to buy complementary friendship necklaces from the mall like some teenage girl.”

Cas obviously has no idea what that means, but past Dean just keeps on talking. “Now, I get that if you think you made a mess, then you want to fix it. But I’ve screwed things up a lot worse going out with just myself, good intentions, and no backup. So, if there’s some monster you want to take down and you’ve got a plan on how to do it, we can all go together. But if you’re just leaving so that you feel like you’re doing _something,_ I’d tell you to stop being a dumbass. We need you here to figure out all this time travel stuff. Plus, I _want_ you here.”

If I hadn’t died so many times and become acutely familiar with how it feels, I would think I was dying right now. Dean is…telling Cas he cares about him…? Without the knowledge of near-certain death looming over their heads? And asking for something for himself without going in a million circles around it? A part of me feels like I need to sit down.

I guess I figured that Dean’s and Cas’s horrible communication was something that was there from the beginning—but now that I think about it, it wasn’t _always_ that way. Back when I was hopped up on demon blood and they had been allies instead of friends—things hadn’t been easier between them exactly. But more honest, possibly?

Was that because they had yet to go through the series of betrayals that forced them to lose trust in one another and then build it back up again? Or maybe because they didn’t used to be so important to each other’s lives, their relationship didn’t seem like such a scary thing to risk by being honest?

Cas stares at past Dean like he always looks at my brother when he’s in one of his soft moods—like he’s both a question and an answer—and Dean stares back the way he always does, those green eyes feeling everything at once—and I feel myself almost disconnect with my body as they put me firmly in the background.

Meanwhile, the 2016 version of Dean keeps switching his gaze between them—and I realize he’s not used to this—to seeing it from the outside. Perhaps he doesn’t even _know_ that this is the way he and Cas are around each other and the confusion on his face would almost be funny if his expression wasn’t darkening by the minute.

“Of course, I’ll stay,” Cas says, simple as that. Or it would be if older Dean didn’t suddenly turn on his heel and leave the room.


	13. 2016's Cas POV

_2016’s Cas POV_

“Dean,” I call, pushing open the door to his bedroom.

His eyes are closed, hands clasped over his chest as he listens to Led Zeppelin, and yet I just _know_ that he heard me and is choosing not to say anything.

“Dean!” I repeat, pulling one side of his headphones away from his ears.

“What do you want?” he demands—and, even though I have seen this man bloody and bruised, covered in sewage, and throwing up far too much whiskey, this is definitely his least attractive look.

“I don’t understand why you’re acting like this,” I confess. “And I’ve been trying for days to get you to talk to me, but you just keep shutting me out. I thought, maybe, if I went away for a while…?”

I feel the strange desire to shift from foot to foot, useless as the gesture would be. Just another sign of how human I’ve become. And yet, I am no closer to understanding _this_ human than when he used to step toward me, only to issue a reminder about the sanctity of personal space. “I could still go, if you want,” I whisper.

This is obviously the wrong thing to say as the pulse point in his neck jumps, angrily.

“No, I don’t want you to fuckin’ leave! And I’ve been telling you that for hours— _years!_ even—but apparently, it takes Boy Wonder coming along for you to have a reason to stay.”

“Are you…?” The words slip out of me in surprise. But I know better than to use the term ‘jealous’, so I quickly change tactics. “I would have stayed if you asked me to, too. You didn’t ask. You just told me I’d get myself killed going after Lucifer on my own.”

“Yes, well, in addition to not staying here with us, you have a pretty bad track record at staying alive.”

I release a loud breath. _I once spent two Earth years having one conversation with Balthazar. I once waited in silence as an entire solar system was born. I have enough patience to deal with Dean Winchester,_ I remind myself.

“I may leave the Bunker, Dean, but I never leave you. Not really. My thoughts are always here even when I think it’s best for us to be apart. But you—you go a million miles away from me while you’re still sitting at the kitchen table. How am I supposed to stay with you when I don’t even know where you went?”

He doesn’t say anything—just starts reaching for his headphones. And I swear I _will_ smite him if he puts them on again.

Instead, he takes them off completely, tossing them onto the nightstand. I soften my glare, just a little.

“I--” Dean starts, but cuts himself off abruptly, looking physically pained. “Close your eyes, will ya?” he asks, suddenly, squeezing his own eyes closed again.

“What…?”

“ _Please,_ Cas.”

I’ve met Fate, God, The Darkness, and Death and none of them rendered me as powerless as that please. I close my eyes.

I feel him then, not quite praying yet, his consciousness just hesitantly reaching out to my own. He’s trying to hide in the shadows, but he’s always underestimated the sheer brightness of his soul—the way it not only gives light, but casts it on other things and people. My thoughts sigh in relief.

 _I know I’m being an asshole, alright?_ he admits, finally. _But…it really bugs me that he can get through to you when I can’t._

Just underneath his words, I see a flash of memory that I doubt he intended to share. It’s…me? Shaggy-haired and stubbled, jean-covered legs propped up on a table. As I watch, this doppelganger throws a smile over his shoulder. “What? I _like_ past Dean,” he says with a smirk, a compliment and an insult all at once.

 _I mean, I know we’re the same person, kinda,_ Dean continues, unaware of the interruption. _But he hasn’t been through all the shit that I’ve been through. That_ we’ve _been through together. Maybe that means he hasn’t messed up with you yet. The idea of him…having your memories…knowing stuff about you that I don’t…It just feels like he should have to_ earn _it. Does that make any sense?_

 _No,_ I tell him, honestly, seeing his consciousness swirl with embarrassment. _But feelings aren’t always rational and that doesn’t mean they aren’t still valid._

 _You’re wrong though…,_ I say after a pause. _If you think I prefer him._

I can feel his thoughts holding very still, trying not to give anything away, so I just keep going. _He’s Dean Winchester. And that_ means _something to me—no matter what form he takes or when he is from. But he’s not the one who taught me about the value of free will or gave me a second chance after I stuffed myself with Leviathan. He hasn’t listened to me doubt the meaning of it all and I haven’t gotten the chance to do that for him either. He hasn’t taught me the thousands of things you have._

_He’ll become that person someday—or the timeline might change, and he’ll make new memories with his Castiel. But that doesn’t change anything about us. I’d choose you, the same way I’ve always done._

Relief bursts from him, bright green and yellow—and as beautiful as it is, I worry that I am taking advantage of him by seeing this much without his permission.

“So, considering all that, are you OK with me sharing some things with the Other Dean or do you still want me to abstain?” I say, opening my eyes, hoping the sound of my voice will prompt him to let go of the prayer.

“Yeah, it’s fine,” he mumbles, dismissively, but the part of his mind that’s in the process of retreating from mine turns greyer.

An idea comes to me. It’s a stupid risk—but as long as I choose carefully, it may make him feel better without revealing anything he’d find uncomfortable.

I walk over to the bed, reaching slowly forward to place two fingers on his forehead. Rather than dodging them like I half expected him to, Dean just looks at me curiously. “Uh, Cas?”

“I want to give you a memory. It’s not something that the other Castiel needs to see, so I won’t be showing past Dean either.” He looks up at my still-hovering fingers. “It’s like healing. It’s easier if I touch you.”

“You don’t have to,” he points out.

“I want to.”

He looks directly into my eyes as he leans into my fingers.

Of course, when I said memory, I wasn’t being entirely accurate. Instead, my mind flashes between a dozen or so snippets tied together.

_—“Angel of Thursday,” Jophiel greets me in one of the hallways of Heaven a few days after I had taken Jimmy’s vessel. I nod in acknowledgment and slight fondness before continuing down the long corridor. —_

_—“Heyo, brother of mine,” Gabriel suddenly appears by my shoulder. And, even though my heart lifts to see one of my kind who doesn’t shun me for falling, I don’t appreciate his recent tricks with the Winchesters. Sam and Dean are worth so much more than vessels—and this world deserves so much more than a fiery end. So, I don’t turn to him—don’t even acknowledge his presence._

_“Oh, I forgot. Angel of Solitude and all that,” he grumbles, and my annoyance darkens further. “Don’t let me interrupt the party of one you’ve got going on,” he says, disappearing in a rush of wings.—_

_—My head pounds with the beginnings of a hangover. Such a strange sensation as the thoughts I came to bury violently demand escape. It takes me a second to realize a second pressure in my mind. Someone is contacting me. “Hey there, Casanova, little preoccupied, I see. What’s the matter?” It’s Gabriel. Again._

_“God doesn’t care,” I growl, pained all over again by the message He had sent through Joshua._

_“Well, I could have told you that. Glad to see you’ve given up the whole Angel of Temperance persona though. It never quite suited you.”_

_“Goodbye, Gabriel.” And with that, I push his voice firmly away to continue drinking the rest of the liquor store —_

Now that I’ve re-established a link, I can feel Dean’s curiosity burning through me, but I don’t bother to answer it with words. Instead, I pull up the next memory.

_— “Castiel, you used to be an Angel of the Lord. Now, you’re…”_

_“What? Sariel? What am I?” I ask, picturing the weight and grip of my angel blade in case I need to summon it from the ether._

_“The angel of Winchesters,” she spits out in obvious insult._

_Unexpected pleasure blooms inside my grace._

_“Perhaps I am.”—_

_—When I find the Winchesters in a motel outside Memphis, Sam quickly warns me that they’ve teamed up with another hunter for a case. He keeps his voice carefully neutral, but Dean rants for the rest of the night. “Who does this guy think he is…? Just because he specializes in…doesn’t mean…. And another thing! I don’t like how he keeps on asking about Cas. No, it’s not ‘fascinating’ Sam. If he’s that curious, he can get his own goddamn angel.”_

_I hide my smile inside the book I’d been using for research. —_

_— “Castiel,” Garth grins, trying the name out on his tongue. “I took a look at some of Bobby’s books—Angel of Thursday, right? Not gonna lie. I’m more of a Friday man myself.”_

_“You can call me Cas if you prefer,” I tell him, looking across the way to where Dean is joking with Sam over by the Impala. The sight makes me smile slightly—though Garth probably thinks that has to do with his joke. “I haven’t had much to do with Thursdays in quite a while,” I admit._

_“Yeah, being the guardian angel of the Winchesters is probably a full-time job, am I right?”_

_“Yes,” I say, easily. Dean throws his head back fully, bright sunlight over autumn-colored hair. It’s nice to see him like this—so free. “However, there’s nothing else I’d rather be.”—_

I pull back then, quickly, before some other memory can slip in—worried that, perhaps, I already showed too much. Dean’s face...is hard to interpret. It looks vaguely stunned like the time he first encountered me as Emmanuel several literal lifetimes ago.

“That was…pretty intense,” Dean declares, finally, rubbing the palms of his hands against his jeans.

“Too…intense?” I ask back, unsure why that word doesn’t seem quite right.

“Nah,” he smiles, suddenly, in the way that fuels the tiny hope inside me—the one that I try not to entertain but which I haven’t quite been able to extinguish either. At the very least, I’m glad that he seems happier.

I let the quiet sit there, but when it stretches out for another minute, I decide that’s probably my cue to leave. I nod my head and turn, but Dean’s voice stops me with my hand on the doorknob.

“Cas?”

“Yes?”

“You know that for every angel or demon that’s called you our pet angel, just as many have called us your pet humans.”

The corners of my lips twitch as I stand, still facing the door. “I know.”


	14. 2008's Dean POV

_2008’s Dean POV_

Bobby finds me in one of the storage rooms I was definitely told not to be in—but I figure that if my older self really meant that, he and Sam would have put in locks that were harder to pick. “What are you doing in here, boy? Ain’t you supposed to be getting a memory transplant right about now?”

“Like you rush to get a prostate exam.”

“Who needs one—when I already got you to be a pain in my ass?”

I tip a vial over on its head, watching the ink-like spheres inside the clear liquid merge together and then separate like the stuff in lava lamps. Then, I notice the label—Shrinking Potion (affects certain body parts only)—and rush to put it back on the shelf.

“I don’t like the idea of someone else being in my head,” I say, finding a mostly sturdy wooden crate and plopping down on it. “Cas is cool—and I trust him, which is probably insane considering I’ve known him less than a week—but…I mean, Sam and I have lived outta each other’s pockets our entire lives and still managed to keep some boundaries, you know?”

“Shouldn’t Cas be feeling that way more than you? He’s the one doing all the sharing.”

“You’re kidding, right? That’s freaky, too. I get that Heaven is apparently upside-down Hell, but I don’t know if I wanna find out what happened to make an angel fall like that.”

Bobby looks at me. He snorts.

“What?”

“It’s not like you to be _humble_. You talk pretty girls out of their numbers and cops into letting you onto their crime scenes. If you had any other parent than John Winchester, you mighta been the first kid to ever successfully talk their old man into giving them a pony. If we needed an angel to switch teams, I’m pretty sure _you’re_ what happened to him.”

Bobby must see something in my face, because he quickly sighs. “I wasn’t saying that as a bad thing, son. From what I can tell, Castiel is exactly where he wants to be.”

“Trapped in an underground lair fighting with my other self for days because he apparently never got a memo saying he was wanted around here?”

“Relationships are messy. It was with Karen.” I open my mouth to protest, but he just rolls his eyes. “It’s like that with you and Sam too. But often it’s the people we yell at the loudest that we care about the most. You saw it. Even when the two of them were arguing, they were struggling to keep apart—like two magnets fighting their nature.”

I had seen it, but like hell if I was going to admit that out loud.

Still, I wait for Bobby to say anything—to comment on their… _themness_ …and how it seems…different…from what Sam and Castiel have. I mean, I’d never really had a best friend before—and I’m also not used to angels. Maybe they all stand really close and soul strip people with their eyes. That’s gotta be the explanation. But I’m not sure if Bobby understands that’s all that’s going on there. Maybe I should tell him. But only if he brings it up first.

Of course, that’s when the wood box I’m sitting on decides to give out.

Dozens of glass shards bite through my jeans into my ass, brightly burning, as purple-colored smoke wraps around me. “Son of a--”

Two hours later, we’ve finally sorted out my senses so that I’m smelling through my nose and seeing out of my eyes again. But I will forever shudder at the memories of when they were mixed up. “Did you ever think of—I don’t know—getting _rid_ of some of these disasters in the making? I mean, there’s a pot in there that says it conjures ferrets. What could you _possibly need_ a ferret-conjuring pot for?” 

“Sam,” Cas asks, with a frown between his eyebrows. “Do you think we could modify the spell on that pot to produce bees instead?” The four of us blink at him, simultaneously. “ _What?_ The dwindling bee population is highly concerning and has a direct effect on the global food supply.”

“We’ll work on setting you up with a hive out back, OK? So long as you promise not to _wear_ them this time,” my older self promises the angel, who offers a sheepish, almost embarrassed smile in return. Whatever that story is, I want to know it. “And to answer your question, Mini Me, what do you want us to do with all of it? Dump it in the ocean? It’s safer here where no one can touch it…Well, _almost_ no one.”

“Dean,” Sam claps the other Me on the back. “Stop being judgmental over something that a version of you did.”

“Yeah,” I smirk. “That’s just the ferret-conjuring pot calling the kettle black.”

I don’t care about the groans that comment gets me. It was fuckin’ hilarious.

“So, uh, where are we going to do this exactly?” I prompt Cas when it’s finally time to get down to business, trying to hide the way I’m wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans.

“Wherever you’d feel most comfortable. Your bedroom?”

If I was eighty years old and had one of those medical alert necklace things, that would have been enough to get me hitting my panic button. “Uh, that seems a little claustrophobic to me. What about right here,” I say, gesturing to the set of two armchairs in the library and then, answering my own question, I scramble into one—denim squeaking over leather.

Once I’m settled down, I expect Cas to just get on with it with the same sense of purpose that he does everything. Instead, he just stands there, hands buried in his trench coat pockets. A thought occurs to me. “This morning—when you guys didn’t come look for me—were you stalling too?”

“I—yes,” he admits, walking over to the corner—where I’ve just realized there’s a wet bar for the first time. Dude pours himself a full glass of bourbon and downs it in about a gulp. “Want some?” he asks as he pours himself a second.

“Does that even do anything to you?”

“I would need an order of magnitude more than this to feel tipsy.”

“Then why are you doing it?”

“Because, I’ve learned all my emotional-coping methods from Winchesters. Well, first they taught me about emotions. _Then_ how to drown them in alcohol.”

I walk over him and accept the glass he hands me, noting that his fingers aren’t sweaty at all. We sip in silence.

“It’s gonna be OK,” I try to reassure him. “I mean, once I get back to the past and give the Other You these memories, he’s supposed to wipe them from me, right? So, no harm, no foul.”

“You’ll have them while you’re here, though, and I can’t say how you’ll react to some of the things you’ll find out. You can be…unpredictable, sometimes.”

“Is ‘unpredictable’ code for ‘jackass’?”

“Only sometimes. That’s why you’re unpredictable.”

A smile twitches the corner of my mouth. When I look up at the angel, I see a matching grin and, _Wow. Dude’s really got to smile more. He could give me and my panty-dropping abilities a run for their money._

“Look,” I say, shaking my head to clear it. “I suppose I’m not in a position to promise anything about how this is going to go. But I’m usually pretty good at placing bets—and I would bet that you and me and other Me are going to work it out no matter what shit comes up. Capiche?”

“I capiche.”

“Good. Now, quit pregaming. Do your thing. Unless you want to give me a hint what I’m about to see…?”

Cas’s smile evens out where before it was twisted slightly to the left. “I’m going to show you how we were supposed to meet.”

And then, with two fingers on my forehead, I’m suddenly back in a familiar barn.

This time, I’m looking at my own face, glancing between me—or I guess, Castiel—and the bursting lightbulbs.

_“I can’t see you in all this?” I ask Cas, somewhat disappointed._

_“Do you see yourself in your own memories, Dean?”_

_I think about it, “Uh, sometimes?”_

_Cas nods, unperturbed. “That’s not uncommon for humans. It’s called observer point of view and is a coping mechanism used to keep your active self emotionally separated. People also have the tendency to let their more recent experiences color their emotions toward old memories. However, I am an angel. I remember things exactly as they happened, as they felt the first time.”_

The Dean and Bobby in front of me begin opening fire. I feel the bullets like I felt the insults of high school bullies—barely noticing of them, knowing that they have no idea who they’re really messing with. Half a second later, I’ve forgotten about the bullets altogether.

The Dean I was less than a week ago gets his knife out instead. “Who are you?” he demands.

“I’m the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.”

I see the chill that runs through his spine, even though he tries to hide it.

_“Gotta agree with your Dean, Cas. Way more badass this time.”_

“Yeah. Thanks for that,” the memory says, sarcastically—right before plunging the knife into Cas’s chest. Castiel looks down at the blade—and I catch a glimpse of what he’s wearing—which is, no surprise, what he always wears. Though the trench coat looks a little different. Might just be the angle.

Castiel feels…amused? Possibly. But the emotion is buried so far down—under layers and layers of strategy and languages and his intimate awareness of the time and his vessel’s body temperature—as to be almost unnoticeable.

Castiel senses Bobby behind him—not just the idea of him—but everything down to his heart rate—and easily intercepts his weapon. Swings the old hunter around and renders him unconscious with a touch of his fingers.

“We need to talk, Dean. Alone.”

“Who _are_ you?” Dean asks, as he checks Bobby’s pulse.

“Castiel.”

“Yeah, I figured that much. I mean _what_ are you?”

And I hate more than anything that I can’t see the wings I feel extending from Castiel’s back, especially when, from his perspective, bringing forth their shadows is like taking some of the air and the stars and all the pieces of the universe that are _him_ and giving them back their real shape.

_“Do you think you could rig me up to see Dean’s version of this? So I can check out the merchandise?” I ask the future Cas._

_He looks at me, startled, “I could…if he allowed it.”_

_“Awesome.”_

I watch myself ask the exact same questions I would have. I listen to Castiel speak in the slow tones of someone who doesn't know what and how much the other is capable of understanding. And yet, the not-quite pity Castiel feels is close to curiosity.

“And why would an angel rescue me from Hell?” Dean demands at last. Castiel genuinely doesn’t understand the question. He knows, of course, that few people get the second chance that this one is given—but he’s also seen the Righteous Man’s soul, how it shone pure and white against the reds and greys of Hell, the way it called out for its brother—not to ask for rescue from his torment, but because his soul is made of utter devotion—and he only finds it strange that his garrison wasn’t called to collect him sooner.

“Good things do happen, Dean,” Castiel settles on saying.

“Not in my experience.”

And when Dean follows that up with a scoff, Castiel can’t help but press closer. “What's the matter?” the angel wonders, almost to himself, examining Dean’s eyes, trying to see through them. There’s pain there—and Castiel is surprised he feels that, much more than the bullets. “You don't think you deserve to be saved.”

Well, Castiel thinks, he’s only human. Humans are often wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had planned the last section of this chapter from the beginning, but it didn't make it any less confusing to write, especially since it's Dean's POV filtered through Cas's POV. (Or Cas's POV filtered through Dean's POV? As I said, confusing!) So please let me know if it was hard to follow and I will try to make modifications.
> 
> Please also let me know what you think of these kinds of scenes in general. I was planning on having three to four full memories and the rest sort of mentioned in passing, but I can make adjustments based on how much you like/don't like it. Does anyone also have a memory they really want included? I'll be focused on things from Seasons 4-6 as those would be most directly useful to 2008's Dean and Bobby. 
> 
> I'm also planning on getting 2016's Dean more directly involved with these little memory sessions in the near future, even though I already hate the idea of having to juggle up to three characters named 'Dean' at a time. Would you like Sam and Bobby to be involved or would you prefer just the two-person love triangle?
> 
> I also just wanted to leave a general FYI saying that the rest of this fic will not be solely memory sharing. There will be some visitors coming and some other hijinks interspersed throughout. Really hope you guys like the chapter!


	15. 2016's Dean POV

_2016’s Dean POV_

Most people in the bars in and around Lebanon know Sam and me pretty well as the Campbell brothers—meaning they’d probably have questions if I suddenly showed up with a Xeroxed version of myself. So, just to be on the safe side, we head to a place on the border of Missouri. It looks like it was last decorated 15 years ago and smells like fried cheese—so it’s practically a home away from home.

“I’ll grab us a table,” Cas announces, while Sam, young Me, and I head up to the bar to place our orders.

“So, how’s it going with the mind meld stuff?” I ask the other Dean, casually popping a peanut in my mouth.

He snorts.

“What?”

“We’re talking shop? I thought this was our night off.”

“When do we ever _stop_ talking shop? It’s not like any of us have any water cooler gossip to share or caught the football game lately. And I’m not gonna ask you what your favorite kind of pie is ‘cause, guess what? I already know.”

Other Me shrugs out of his jacket. “It’s going fine. We’re moving pretty slowly because Cas says my pathetic human brain can’t take too much of his angelic consciousness or something—so I’m up to the part where he threatened to send you back to hell after the whole Witnesses thing.”

He smiles a little. “You know, right before he showed up in Bobby’s kitchen, he and this other angel named Uriel fought a volcano spirit that almost destroyed an ancient church. It was pretty badass.”

“No, I, uh, didn’t know that.” I throw back another three peanuts.

“Uriel’s a dick though,” I can’t help but add.

“Yeah, Cas doesn’t seem to like him that much either. I mean, he respects him, but his grace pulls in tight when he’s around—like it’s trying to stay away.”

“He’s that aware of his grace? I thought it was like blood or your soul—you don’t really notice it until it’s missing,” Sam interrupts, eagerly.

I am stopped from calling him a dork when the bartender appears.

She’s hot—with dark, straight hair that falls to her collar bones and a leather crop top that zips up at the front, almost begging someone to drag it down with their teeth. “Whatcha boys in the mood for?” she asks with a smirk in her voice.

“Whatever drink comes with your number written on the napkin,” my other self replies, just as confidently.

“You think you’re enough to handle me?” she raises her eyebrows and leans forward across the counter to provide us with an even better view.

“Oh, I _know_ I am.”

“Mmmm, not sure. Maybe if you and your twin are interested in some double trouble, we can work something out.”

I point at myself and she nods.

“Uh, yeah, gonna pass,” I say, ignoring my other self’s glare and Sam’s horrified expression all at once. “Can we get four beers and four Fireballs? Please,” I tack on for good measure.

She frowns like I just told her that her cat was ugly. “No problem,” she says, with a tight-lipped smile, before turning away from us to reveal the rose tattoo on her shoulder.

“ _Dude,_ what was that?” Other Me punches my bicep the minute she’s gone.

“Right, ‘cause _I’m_ the weird one for not wanting to be in a naked sandwich with myself.”

“You act as if we’ve never jerked off in the shower.”

A peanut gets lodged halfway down my throat. “Not _together,_ ” I sputter.

Mini Me frowns, drawing lines on his face that will become permanently etched on my forehead and I wish I could tell him to stop it. “It’s not like we haven’t been in threesomes before,” he points out. “Or that fivesome with Lee.”

“ _Dude,_ ” I say, feeling my ears heat up. “We don’t _talk_ about that.”

“I also vote you not talk about that,” Sam begs and, at last, other Dean shuts up.

And yet, somehow, he’s regained enough confidence a minute later to ask, “What’s Cas’s deal by the way? Do angels pluck each other’s harps or whatever?”

I wish I had a drink already. “He doesn’t really…I mean, he _has,_ but, er…” _Feel free to interrupt any minute, Sam._ “Lightly used. His harp is lightly used, OK? Doesn’t help that he couldn’t tell if someone was flirting with him if they wrote it in Enochian on their forehead.”

“That’s not exactly true,” Sam grumbles under his breath.

I think about saying, _Now, he speaks,_ but what comes out is, “What does _that_ mean?”

There’s a furtive look in my brother’s eyes—the same one he’s had the last few times I’ve caught him talking quietly to Bobby. And yet, right as I’m about to comment on it, he seems to reach some decision and the look vanishes.

“I’m just saying, Cas has been on Earth for almost a decade now. He’s not as clueless about things as he makes himself out to be. He always knows when you’re flirting with him, for one.”

My mind shudders to a stop like it’s a subway car that just lost power. When it starts up again, I’m genuinely worried about Sam’s mental health. “Are we sure those Brits didn’t do some permanent damage to your head? I do _not_ flirt with Cas.”

“So, saying, ‘The last time someone looked at me like that, I got laid,’ _doesn’t_ count as flirting?”

“That was…” I trail off. “I tell demons to ‘blow me’ all the time, but it doesn’t _mean_ anything. And what the fuck is wrong with you that you remember that word for word?”

“All I’m saying is that someone could flirt with Cas and he’d rebuff them while pretending not to know what they’re doing. You say the exact same thing or touch him in the exact same way, and he doesn’t seem to mind as much.”

“Are you trying to tell me you think Cas has the hots for me? Dude, he’s _straight._ ”

Sam rolls his eyes. “He’s an _angel._ Angels don’t have genders—or care about them. Just look at Balthazar. Or Raphael. Or God, for that matter.”

I spot my other self looking like a deer caught in the headlights. “Quit the crap, Sam. You’re scaring the kid. Cas isn’t in to me and that’s final.”

Sam doesn’t say anything; he just taps his fingers against the fake hardwood counter. Somehow, that does nothing to relax me.

“Let’s make a bet then,” he says, at last.

“A bet? A bet over _what?_ ”

“For the rest of the night, every time someone flirts with Cas, you or Other You has to do the same thing. If he’s really oblivious, he won’t notice anything’s up.”

“No!” I announce, emphatically. “What would I even get out of that?”

“If he doesn’t respond differently to you, then I promise I won’t bring up the subject again. And I’ll buy whatever you want from the grocery store for the next month without trying to substitute healthy alternatives. I won’t even ask for anything in return.”

“I’m not manipulating a friend just so you’ll buy real bacon. Bitch.”

“Sounds to me like you’re scared I’ll win.”

A throat clears. “How can we even be sure Cas is going to get hit on tonight?” Other Dean speaks up for the first time this conversation. _I wonder where his head is at,_ I think, using the distraction he’s provided to pull my collar away from my neck, where I’ve grown uncomfortably warm.

“Somehow, I don’t think that’s going to be a problem,” Sam insists, turning around on his stool slightly and nodding in Cas’s direction. A slight blond woman in a green dress is standing over our reserved table, talking to Cas. His returning smile is polite, but his posture is straight; if anything, he’s almost leaning backward. As if he feels us watching him, he suddenly looks over his shoulder and our eyes catch. Those eyes have seen the universe—and I, once again, try to suppress my bitterness that the other Me gets to see some of what they’ve seen.

“Drinks!” The bartender announces her return with the sound of two plastic trays hitting the countertop—one containing the beer and the other, the shots.

“So, are we on?” Sam asks as he scoops up the one nearest to him.

“Fine,” I mutter, darkly. “But only ‘cause I love proving how dumb you are, Mr. Full-Ride-to-Standford.”

It’s awkward as hell walking over to the table—though cursing Sam out in my mind helps. The blond is still there, giggling a little—which must be an act because Cas never says giggle-inducing things. “I hope you don’t think I’m being too forward, but, um, you’re really hot, so--”

Cas tilts his head to the side. “My temperature is well within normal bounds for the moment.”

“Oh, I--” There’s another giggle and then she’s putting her hand on his arm, squeezing softly. Meanwhile, Cas just looks down like there’s a strange spider on his coat sleeve.

“Are we interrupting something?” I question from behind the girl, causing her to jump slightly. I hand Cas a beer, cursing Sam again for the way I notice our fingers brushing when he grabs the handle.

“I, um--” the girl looks at Cas, hopefully, but visibly deflates when he doesn’t seem to notice. “I guess not.”

I give her a smile that conveys, _Better luck next time._ Although, Cas does wish her, “Good night,” as she’s turning around and leaving.

“Sorry for keeping you waiting, Buddy,” I tell Cas, sliding into the seat beside him. Sam gives me a pointed glare—but what can I say? It’s _habit._ Because we’re _friends._ Family. Not whatever Sam thinks we are.

“No problem,” he responds, easily. “Melody was just telling me that I reminded her of someone named Peter Densen.”

“Dude! That’s the guy who plays Dr. Sexy.” I take in his dark hair and stubble, combined with the way his trench coat resembles doctor’s scrubs. “I guess I can see it.” Sam's eyes are on me and I cover my neck with my hand where I feel his gaze the most. “You’re, er, both kinda hot. You know, for dudes.”

The corner of Cas’s lips quirk up. “Thank you, Dean. Although I’ll remind you, I’m actually a wavelength of celestial intent.”

My mouth hangs open for a second too long. “Right,” I hear myself mutter, as I take a gulp of beer. “How could I forget?”


	16. 2016's Cas POV

_2016’s Cas POV_

I…am not quite sure what is happening.

Dean seemed almost nervous when the evening started—awkwardly pausing during the middle of conversations and rocking his seat back and forth on two legs until I finally put my hand on the chair to stop him. When I raised an eyebrow in question, he mumbled something and ducked my gaze.

However, once he got some drinks into him—quite a few more drinks that he’d usually indulge in on a night like this—his behavior seemed to change in the opposite direction. A woman stopped by our table and mentioned that my striped tie brought out my eyes—but Dean seemed very adamant that I looked better in the solid blue one. He smiled a little sloppily when I told him I would wear it more often.

By the time another hour had passed, he’d also mentioned that the way I throw angel blades is “really fuckin’ cool” and that he misses how messed up my hair used to be; then, to demonstrate the point, he ruffles his fingers through it. The touch is…surprisingly nice and I try not to lean into it.

I know I should stop him. If he remembers all this in the morning, he’s going to be embarrassed and that could very easily tip over into anger when we’ve just reconciled. But he’s rarely ever bright and free like this, not even when he’s drunk, and it makes it hard to worry about tomorrow’s problems.

I glance at the younger Dean. He seems uncomfortable. That, more than anything, has me questioning what I’m doing.

However, just as I open my mouth to offer to heal the older Dean sober, he announces he is going to the bathroom. “Yeah, me too,” the past version says, scrambling out of his seat.

Sam flashes them a look of concern as they go, so apparently, I am not the only one who has noticed something off.

“Do you think that Dean is OK?” I ask him over the clink of glasses and the cheers and groans of people winning and losing at pool.

Sam’s fingers twitch briefly around his beer bottle. “Seems fine to me,” he says, casually, before taking a swig. He doesn’t look at me when he says it.

Suspicion rises in me, like oil floating to the surface of water. Of course, there’s a reason Dean is acting like this—and not because he suddenly wants to.

Abruptly, I stand, knocking my chair back a little harder than I intended. I don’t have the excuses humans do for leaving a situation they find awkward—no need to use the bathroom or get a breath of fresh air. I can’t even claim tiredness—so I just say, “I’m going outside” and then do.

I’m guessing Sam watches me leave the same way that he watched the Deans—but I dismiss the thought as irrelevant.

For now, it’s just me, a couple of smokers, and the orange-yellow halo cast by the neon signs.

As an angel, there was a time in my eternal existence when I would automatically turn my head towards the heavens when I felt in need of answers. Instead, I find myself distracted by a pair of fuzzy dice that are hanging from the mirror of a nearby pickup truck. If Dean is any indication, a person’s car is often an extension of their personality and I wonder what the owner of these dice thinks of when he or she catches sight of them swinging.

15 minutes pass before he comes after me—and it is almost with regret that I let the twisted, half-formed feeling that drove me outside loosen. Forgiveness is a virtue. And yet, sometimes, I question the speed with which I forgive Dean Winchester just because he looks regretful.

“Heya, Cas,” he murmurs, one hand in his pocket.

“Hello, Dean.”

The neon buzzes.

“Sorry about tonight,” Dean admits at last, with a half-smile that reminds me of the half-moon overhead.

“What part do you feel sorry for?” I ask, genuinely curious.

He blinks at me, surprised.

Then, he takes another minute to think it over. “Would it be bad if I said I don’t know? It sorta depends on how this next part plays out.”

It’s an honest answer—and one I am in a unique position to sympathize with. After all, I once apologized to Dean for keeping my secret alliance from Crowley hidden from him; it was only after the Leviathans poisoned me from the inside out that I was sorry to have made the alliance in the first place. “Tell me when you know then.”

A silence stretches between us, but rather than becoming more tense, we relax into it. Dean comes to stand more firmly beside me with our backs to the bar’s brick wall. He smells like leather and the color teal and vaguely like the beeswax lotion I gave him that he only sometimes admits to using.

“I talked to Mini Me,” Dean says, a few moments after the smokers have crushed their dead buds into the ground with their boots and departed. I nod to let him know that I’m listening. “It’s weird to be on this end of things. Like, I keep telling him ‘this is your future’ without realizing I sound like all those other douchebags who’ve told me to shut up and play my role.”

It’s an idea I hadn’t considered either. “I…suppose by one interpretation, we are doing the work of God here. Making sure the Apocalypse stays on course—just our version of the Apocalypse, not the Bible’s.”

“Exactly! And, I cussed God out back in 2008—and for most of the years after. I couldn’t understand why he allowed all that stuff to happen—the earthquakes and the plagues. Why Sam of all people had to jump into the Pit or lose his soul. I yelled at Him every single time you exploded on me. And even when he brought me or Sam or you back, I was still angry because he knew what was coming and let us die in the first place.”

“And that Dean in there…” he continues, jerking his thumb backward. “He’s gonna have all the same questions that I did. And just like me, he’s the kind to say ‘screw destiny’ every chance he gets. We keep debating whether we should _let_ him and Bobby change the past--”

“But when does anyone _let_ a Winchester do anything?” I finish the thought for him.

I will admit that the plan—to give past Dean information about the future, hope he shares it with his Castiel, pray his Castiel accepts his role as a fallen angel and wipes Dean’s memory while also staying true to the course laid out for him—has only become more complicated and grasping with time. But that’s not all that’s going on here.

“You _want_ him to do it differently,” I announce into the still night air.

Dean scrubs the back of his head, where his short hair meets the nape of his neck. “Yeah,” he breathes.

“What changed your mind?”

He turns towards me and our shoulders inadvertently brush in the process. “I’ve done a lot of things I regret, Cas…but…more than that…” He closes his eyes. “God, this is gonna sound like a fuckin’ cliché, but there’s a lot of stuff I _haven’t_ gotten to do—experiences…with people—I’ve never gotten to have. He might.”

I have to consciously remind my grace to pump my borrowed heart. Dean wants…what? …A family? Of course, there must be a part of him that longs for more than what Sam and I could give him—and he deserves it, too. But the thought of _undoing_ …

“Whatever missed opportunities you think you’ve had…” I begin quietly. “What stops you from pursuing them now?”

He opens his eyes and—I’m taken aback. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look like this. His walls are down. If an angel wanted to possess him right now, they might not even need a verbal ‘yes’ to do so and it’s clear—to some extent—that that is what he is doing—inviting me in, inviting me to _see_. But see what?

“I don’t know if I can, Cas,” he whispers. “Maybe I’m too old, maybe I’ve lost too much, or gotten too used to playing it safe--”

“You never play it safe.”

“I do,” he insists, lifting his hand up almost as if he were going to smooth his fingers through my hair again. I exhale sharply and he abruptly stops. Curls his fingers in towards his palm. Drops his arm back down to his sides. “With some things, I do.”

“Come on,” he motions to me, pushing off the wall and gesturing back into the bar. “Before they send a search party after us.”

I follow him automatically, my mind sifting through the conversation we just had for whatever meaning I’ve overlooked.

“Cas?” he says, as he holds the door open for me.

“Yes, Dean?”

“The blue tie really does look good on you, man. Sorry I never told you before.”


	17. 2008's Dean POV

_2008’s Dean POV_

“Dean, I understand you’re angry…”

“Do you though?” I spit out at Castiel, hands gripped into fists at my sides. “Because from what I just saw, you weren’t angry. Or sorry. You didn’t seem to care at all about my baby brother being slipped a demon blood roofie or my mother _burning to death_ on the ceiling!”

“That’s not--”

“It _is_ true. I feel what you feel, remember?” I don’t want to deal with this, so I dodge the angel to head in the direction of the sleeping quarters where I’m hoping to find a Sam to yell at.

Now, a part of me realizes that the one who’s using the dark side of the force and hiding it from me is eight years in the past—but I don’t let that slow me down. My dad once sucker punched me when he found out a vampire that I thought was dead suddenly resurfaced two years later, so I figure it’s parental prerogative.

Of course, I have to run straight into my uglier half on the way there.

“Woah, woah, where’s the fire?” he asks, one hand propped up against my chest to stop my charge down the hallway.

I smack his arm away. “What the hell is wrong with you? All that crap you gave me about how you care about Sam just as much as I do, you just _trust him_ more. Trust him? He’s been playing with powers he got from _Yellow Eyes_ and shacking up with _Ruby_!”

A flicker of something moves over his eyes—like the shadow of a fish moving under a lake—but then it’s gone again. “Watch it,” he warns me. “In case you haven’t noticed, Sam is _fine_. The blood thing—I admit, wasn’t pretty—and to be real, he goes through a lot worse. I’d give almost anything to stop him from having those memories. But you do realize that this info we’re giving you—the power to change everything—might mean that he never winds up safe at the bunker at all?”

He looks down at me—and is he stuffin’ his shoes or something? ‘Cause we’re the same damn height.

“Sam and I talked about it and _we’re_ the ones trusting _you_ here,” he continues. “To make sure he makes it to 2016 no matter what—even if that means letting him jump in the Pit all over again.”

“The Pit?” He doesn’t mean…

But the Other Dean is already shaking his head, “Never mind that yet. Cas’ll get you up to speed.”

“No,” I grit my teeth hard enough that I can feel it in my jaw. “I want to hear it from you. _Not_ Mr. AutoCorrect.”

His forehead lines deepen. “You’re pissy with Cas too? Is it about the bar thing—‘cause I told you that wasn’t—he doesn’t—”

 _Nope, nope, nope. Not gotta think about that._ About what it was like to just sit there, my stomach like that snake that eats itself as I watched _my face_ make _those faces_ at a freakin’ male Angel of the Lord. Or how Cas’s stupidly blue eyes went soft every time he did. Meanwhile, Sam and me were right there—cast in the roles of chopped liver.

“He was there, you know,” I say instead. And it should scare me how much the almost-growl I make feels more natural against my throat than my regular voice. “Cas and some other douche angels went back and watched Azazael break into Sam’s room. Watched Mom barge in. That’s why they sent you on your little time travel journey.

“Obviously, Cas oversaw that too so that he could pop in and deliver his vague little hints. Of course, he couldn’t just _tell you_ that Mom was going to make a deal—so you could actually _do_ something to stop it. Her death, the Apocalypse you keep on teasing like a bad movie trailer—none of it would have happened if he felt like being more helpful than a fortune cookie.”

I can see that I’ve caught him off guard—and it’s about time that he realizes that being older doesn’t automatically mean he’s wiser. Considering he’s likely had hundreds more concussions than me, maybe he’s lost a few brain cells. That would explain a lot.

And yet, just as I’m savoring this minor victory, he shakes his head. “Cas couldn’t have done anything to stop it. Not really. I thought that I was the one who drew Azazael’s eyes to Mom—but he was always after her—or after Sam, at least. If she hadn’t made the deal then, he’d have gone after Dad some other time—and she would have made the same dumb Winchester choice that we all make.”

“She didn’t have to go into the nursery,” I argue. “The angels could have stopped her—and then Azazael wouldn’t have killed her.”

For a minute, I try to picture it. What life would have been like if she’d stuck around. Dad might have stayed a mechanic. We’d have grown up in a house—had regular meals and friends. We would have gone to one school and maybe Sammy and me would have been typical, selfish teenagers—who, OK, probably wouldn’t have been as close as we are now. And there’d probably be a lot more monsters in the world….

But Sam would have gotten to have a normal job. He might have still gone to Stanford and found Jess, and actually proposed to her. He’d have 2.5 kids, a dog, and a picket fence just like he always wanted.

And as for me…. Well, to be honest, it’s kind of hard to see myself living the apple pie life. Maybe, in this alternative reality that I’m rapidly creating in my head, I’d run across Lisa and Ben. _Yeah, I could be happy with them_ , I tell myself, even though a Dean Winchester who was never a hunter would never know Bobby or Jo or Ellen or…Cas.

I scowl at the wall, unwilling to admit out loud that I’d ended up disproving my own point. But the Other Dean seems to know anyway if his silence is any indication. I—he—always has too much to say.

But the anger inside me is still _there_ and _hot_ and it bothers me that my other self hasn’t caught on to it yet.

“Even if Cas couldn’t have done anything, he still should’ve _wanted_ to,” I insist. “But it didn’t even occur to him to _try_. I was there…in his head. He thought that Mom should have known better than to make a deal with a demon. He thought that six-month-old Sammy was impure for something that wasn’t close to being his fault. He thought…he thought that it was a shame that someone with a soul as bright as mine tarnished it by going to Hell for him.”

“If I could interject,” Cas’s voice suddenly rumbles from behind me—and I jump a little.

“Gah! We need to get you a bell or something.”

The Other Dean snorts, but he does seem to look at Cas with more caution than usual.

“I admit, I didn’t always have the most generous thoughts in regards to Sam. I never hated him or despised him—but I did think he that he was…damaged goods, I guess is the best way to describe it. It’s what all angels were told to think. To some extent, they also thought the same about you, Dean—but I…I knew better. I knew _you._ Not in the way I do now—where I know the words to your favorite Zeppelin songs and what you look like what you’re lying—but I did know you were…well, righteous.

“And the more I put faith in you, the less I put faith in God—and the more I warmed up to Sam, whose soul I couldn’t see as clearly right away.” Cas pauses, “I would say I’d die for him, but I think I actually did that once.”

“Twice if you count Raphael _and_ Lucifer,” the Other Dean adds from behind me.

Cas shrugs, dismissive.

“Regardless, I’m not going to apologize for not knowing how important he would become to my life. Not when I’ve done much worse things—to both you and Sam—that I truly _am_ sorry for.”

That should be enough for me. I mean, I get what he’s saying and not too long ago, I thought he was a demon I was preparing to stab so it’s not like I’m always good at judging people in the moment either. But the uneasiness won’t leave me—and I realize that it was never so much about _Sam_ as it was about _Cas_ —and how weird it is to feel how protective he is of me in his memories.

The Other Dean doesn’t know just how often he watched him, even from the very beginning. Or the reassignments he maneuvered himself out of to stay in his position at Dean’s side—not understanding why he was so attached, striving not to be, but becoming so anyway.

People don’t care about me like that. Sure, Sam would do a hella a lot for me—but not as much as I’d do for him. That’s why he was fine not talking to me for two years when he was at Stanford while I missed having him shotgun every damn day. Why he became a Sith in the four months I was dead. And that’s OK. People shouldn’t feel that way about me…Not with the things I’ve done.

But Cas does somehow and…it’s wrong. It’s all kinds of wrong.

I nod at the Other Dean and Cas, hoping that communicates an _I’m fine, we’re good_ —but I don’t stay to chat. Instead, I’m going to go to the kitchen, find some Jack and hope that when I’m drunk, I don’t remember what it was like to have people under my knife on the rack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long! I actually wrote a large chunk of a Sam POV chapter--but I got to this one part in it and couldn't make myself write it anymore--and I think it was because I knew that what I was having 2016 Dean do in that version of things wasn't in character. After I've tried so hard to slowly grow him in a realistic way, it just wasn't settling right. So I started over and am much more satisfied with the results--hopefully, you are too.
> 
> I did really like some parts of Sam's POV so, hopefully, I can incorporate those into later chapters.
> 
> Also, in case it wasn't obvious to everyone...Castiel has now shared with 2008 Dean memories through the beginning of 4x04 Metamorphosis now that he, 2016 Dean, and Sam have come to an agreement to not keep any more secrets and actually let younger Dean and Bobby change the future.


	18. 2016's Dean POV

_2016’s Dean POV_

“Cas, Man, you seriously rebelled from Heaven for _that_?” I mutter, pointing in the direction that my other self disappeared to. If I know that look on his face and I _do_ , I’m going to have to send him to the store later to replace whatever he drank. Maybe, he can get pie too.

Cas’s eyes smile slightly. “He grows on you,” he promises, unconsciously falling into step beside me, trench coat sleeves brushing my arm as we walk.

“If you say so.”

Cas _hmms_ an agreement _,_ the noise like a softer echo of the rumble of the bunker generators.

“I find it interesting how much you dissociate the two of you,” he admits after a minute. “I think, if asked, you would never admit I fell for _you_ ; you’d say I did it for the good of humanity. But you don’t seem to have that problem with him.”

It’s a statement and a question at the same time and my hands find the hair at the back of my neck immediately. “It was just a joke before. I mean, I don’t _really_ believe that--”

“I would say that the decision was probably 72% one, 28% the other,” Cas interrupts.

“That’s, uh….” My mind stutters. “Which one am I?”

“What do you think?” he asks, with a raised eyebrow.

I _think_ the angel has gotten too damn sassy over the years.

“He just _seems_ different to me,” I answer instead. “A lot _more_ different than I would have guessed for only being eight years apart. It’s like—he’s got his back to the wall all the time, wondering where the next attack is coming from, who’s going to screw him over next. I mean, yeah, I’m a paranoid son of a bitch but--” I give a startled laugh. “I can’t believe after everything that’s happened to me that _I’m_ the more trusting one.”

“You put a lot of pressure on yourself back then—thinking you were the one who had to bear the sole weight of responsibility, most acutely for Sam, but also for the world since you blamed yourself for the Apocalypse starting. Being forced to share those burdens with others—to let Sam join the fight as an equal, for example—made you realize you could count on people to watch out for you as much as you watch out for them.”

I get a sudden image of Cas back when he was Castiel, watching me in my sleep, and I wonder if he ever stopped studying me like I’m the world’s most interesting ant farm. But then I shake the feeling off. We’re friends. Family. He’s allowed to…observe…I guess.

I realize that I’ve walked us back to my room—probably just out of habit—but I pause outside the door. Cas and I don’t usually hang out here—saving that for the Dean Cave or one of the other common areas—but I also don’t want someone else inviting themselves into our conversation. I push the door open and gesture for the angel to go in ahead of me.

“I know it’s early days,” I say, once I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, having convinced Cas to take the chair (“Standing over me like that is weird, Dude.”) “But you _are_ planning on showing him the good stuff, too, right? Like me taking you to that brothel? Or the first time I got you to listen to Zepp? Or that time you and Sam ganged up on me because you wanted to fly, not drive to that vamp case?”

“That…is a _good_ memory for you?” Cas’s forehead is furrowed. “You complained afterward that flying disrupted your bowel movements.”

“Well, yeah…But it was, like, a sign you guys were starting to get along. Even if it was a huge diss to Baby.”

Cas’s angles his head toward the ceiling, considering. “I will admit that I hadn’t thought to include those details in your—his—my past self’s—” he purses his lips with either amusement or annoyance. “The transfers,” he decides on, at last. We share a small chuckle at how damn messy our lives are.

“You gotta though,” I tell him more seriously. “You’re doing this so past Cas understands the reasons he hung up his harp. But Mini Me’s seeing all this too—and he has to trust you the way I trust you. He’s got to want to fight to keep you in his life. And it’s gonna be because of those little things.”

Cas’s expression warms around the edges, like pie cooking from the outside in.

“It would take an incredibly long time to show him our _every_ interaction, Dean,” he says, gently. “And as has just been made apparent, the things that are of significance to you in regards to our relationship aren’t all obvious to me. I have my own ‘little things’. The first time you called me ‘Cas’ or….” He trails off with something that could almost be considered a blush, but which definitely isn’t because angels don’t do that crap.

I blame the bar. Actually, I blame Sammy. Ever since that night when he said that Cas might be into me, I don’t know if I’m noticing more stuff or if I’m just seeing what isn’t there.

It shouldn’t matter anyway. Even if Cas is…confused, he’s never done anything about it, so he’s probably not going to. And I sure as hell ain’t bringing it up, knowing I could never give him… _that_.

_Won’t or can’t?_ A voice inside me asks, but the answer is _can’t._ For a lot of reasons. Starting with his vessel having a dick and ending with the fact that he deserves someone who treats him a hell of a lot better than I do.

But none of that changes that he’s the second most important person in my life. And I’m not gonna _let_ anything change that either. Because it occurs to me that a lot of what makes me different than the douchebag drinking all my whiskey in the kitchen—a lot of things that I like about myself and a few of the things I dislike, too—are because of the angel sitting across for me. He said that I had to learn to trust Sam during the Apocalypse. But I had to learn to trust him, too.

“I have to be there. At your memory exchange parties. I get you don’t want me to be, but it’s the only way,” I tell him flat-out. “Because I know how your mind works and you’re going paint yourself in the worst possible light without even trying.

“You’ll show him every time you lied to us or thought about leaving us because you feel guilty about it and don’t want to hide that shit. But you won’t show him the moments that will help balance the scales in his eyes. And besides, you’re right. It’s not your perspective he needs. It’s mine. He needs _my_ memories too.”

Cas looks at me, blue eyes wide and shocked, which makes sense because I’m basically volunteering to share my _feelings_ in the most literal way possible. And just the thought of that makes me so queasy I want to take my offer back. But I can’t send Other Dean back to 2008 resenting Cas the way he did today.

And maybe, just maybe, doing this will help Cas understand, too. All the stuff I can’t say.


	19. 2016's Sam POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late! Writing's been a bit harder recently. That being said, I did finish one of my WIPs (called [Truth Be Told](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21621739/chapters/51558172)) recently, which should free up some time.
> 
> Also, I feel like I teased cameos forever ago--but now they're finally happening! Hopefully, I can do these characters justice as I have never written them before.

_2016 Sam’s POV_

“Pass me some more lamb’s blood, will yer?” Bobby asks from where he’s balanced on a ladder in the corner of the room. Amara broke through a lot of the bunker’s warding trying to get to Dean—and then Chuck damaged even more by making himself an unwanted houseguest. Usually, Cas would be the one helping me restore it, but there’s something comfortable about doing this work with Bobby. Like I’m the one who went back in time and found out the old me still fits.

Once I’ve given him a fresh bowl, I slide back across the room on an ancient, army-green rolling chair that was clearly meant for someone shorter. The control panel blinks at me, looking unimpressed, but sometime in the past, Charlie put Star Wars stickers on the important buttons and I’m able to follow her instruction book for getting the physical security up and running again fairly easily if not quickly.

“What’s this one?” the older hunter grunts a minute later. He’s been stopping to ask me about every symbol he doesn’t recognize. Right now, he’s pointing with his paintbrush at his own half-finished handiwork, the lines delicate enough to be calligraphy.

“Cas’s name in Enochian,” I explain. “We have to write him in as an exception before we can finish the angel warding, so he doesn’t get kicked out.”

“Guess it’s good to get some practice in,” Bobby says, adding the tiny dots beside the sweeping part that looks like a Z. “Before I gotta start writing it on wedding invitations.”

I raise my eyebrows at that.

“What?” The older hunter asks. “Did you think I’d _mind_ who Dean wants to round home base with? Or that I just wouldn’t notice?”

“I’m never sure how obvious they are to other people,” I admit, fiddling with what looks like an oven knob. “I mean, _I_ see it—but I’m also around them 24/7. And even then, it took me a while to understand _what_ I was seeing because I was so sure that Dean was straight.”

Bobby snorts, “You weren’t paying enough attention when he watched Indiana Jones then.”

“There was a lot I didn’t notice back when we were kids.” Like how many times Dean skipped meals so I could eat or the way he put himself between Dad and I whenever we got into one of our fights—not because he didn’t have the courage to stand up to him, the way I sometimes thought—but because he was trying to _protect_ me.

“In any case, they’re not together, and I doubt they’re going to figure themselves out anytime soon.” Not that that had stopped me from trying to push them in the right direction at the bar the other night. But, like most Winchester-laid plans, it had fallen far short of the desired effect.

I’m so lost in my head that I don’t really stop to consider what I say next. “Now that I think about it, I should have known you knew. Some of the comments you used to make about—” My throat closes up, ending my sentence abruptly as if the damage weren’t already done.

I risk a glance at Bobby—and he actually rolls his eyes at me. “I already know I’m dead, so you can stop twitching like a damn mousetrap.”

“You…you do?”

“Not that I don’t love you boys, but you’d call me to help you deal with a bad hangnail. The only reason you wouldn’t have hauled Future Me over here to figure out this mess is if I’m not around for you to call.”

“It won’t happen this time. I swear.” If there’s one thing I’m sure Cas would want to change, it’s the Leviathans. And no Dick Roman means Bobby doesn’t get shot in the head.

“When hunters swear, it starts with an ‘f’ and ends with a ‘you.’ We don’t make promises we can’t keep. You don’t know what’s going to happen if we change things any more than I do.” His voice softens. “Dying ain’t so bad. We’ve all got to do it eventually.”

“Some more than the rest of us,” I say, wryly.

“How many times have you and Dean died since I last saw you?”

“Is it bad that I’ve lost count? Probably three or four times each. Cas too. We also broke you out of Heaven once.”

Bobby shakes his head, “Better not have been for a hangnail.”

“Not quite,” I murmur, turning back to my screen.

I flip a switch and a completely different set of buttons light up; this time, they’re decorated with Avenger’s insignias—although I see Charlie made an exception for Wonder Woman.

Bobby finishes up the last of Cas’s name with a flourish he would deny having and, for a second, the paint glows white-blue like grace. It’s a moment that feels nice and boring and domestic.

Which is how I should have known it would all go to hell. Or, more accurately, that hell would come to us.

Bobby’s working on the next line of markings when all the lights in the room lose their soft, iridescent glow to pulse red. The alarm starts blaring loud enough that the people in Oz can probably hear it.

“Demon!” I explain, burying the younger Sam inside me instantly.

Instinct has me reaching for the guns we have stashed along the wall and tossing one the short distance over to Bobby. He grasps it firmly, flipping the safety off, and follows me without a word as I check around the corner with the barrel before following with my body. Unfortunately, the demon blade is back in my room—but Dean and Cas usually have angel blades on them.

I try not to think of the symbolism of that as I meet them, and the younger Dean, at the base of the stairs.

It’s a rare feeling—preparing to fight something not as a duo or even a trio—but as a group—and I smirk only slightly, realizing we should rightly scare whoever’s on the other side of that door.

It creaks open. The first thing I notice is the completely black suits both men wear. The next is that, even if they are dressed alike, that don’t seem to have come _together_ —the first man stumbling as if pushed by the second, though he straightens himself quickly, tugging down on his clothes sharply to neaten himself.

At last, I catch sight of the second man’s face.

Dean, Cas, and I all lower our weapons while the younger Dean and Bobby tighten their grip on theirs—the sense of unity in our little group broken once again by how differently we understand the world.

“Well, well, well,” a familiar voice smirks from above us. “Aren’t you boys always full of surprises?”

The older version of my brother crosses his arms while Cas takes an unconscious half-step closer and in front of him. “What are you doing here Crowley?”


	20. 2008's Dean POV

_2008’s Dean POV_

“Come on, we’ll explain in the hall,” my older self promises, gesturing for me to follow him out.

I’m pretty sure I hit him with my spit as my sputter turns into a yell. “You just told me that the guy who looks like a Rolex salesman is the _King of Hell_ —and you want to leave him _alone_ in your _Batcave…?_ ” I ask, incredulously.

“We kind of have an agreement,” Sam inserts, which considering I just learned that his past self was practicing demon king fu behind my back _really_ doesn’t help my mood.

“An agreement?” Bobby repeats, voice low and dangerous, and thank fuck, there’s someone not insane on my side.

“Not a demon deal,” the other Dean is quick to say. “Just…yeah, an agreement. To not kill each other. Most of the time.”

“Well, gee, doesn’t that make me feel better,” Bobby remarks, his expression as flat as a highway. “Do you guys have little cucumber sandwiches when you meet for your monthly book club?”

“Oh, no need to get your hackles up, Robert,” Crowley says, with an oil-slick smile. “We used to be quite close—you and me. I would show you the photographic evidence but I’m afraid I just upgraded to the new iPhone. And if you think _my_ contracts are like signing over your soul….”

“Crowley,” my future self warns.

“Relax, Squirrel. I’m not forgetting our special bond either. If you ever feel like revisiting our summer together, I’d be more than happy to--”

Cas stalks forward, blue eyes blazing like a gas stove, and even though it’s squarely directed at the man—demon—in front of him, we can all feel the heat.

“Right,” Crowley frowns. “I forgot what a stick-in-the-mud your boyfriend is when he’s not being possessed by the Morningstar.”

Everyone starts talking at once. I’m trying to find out what the hell Crowley’s talking about, the other Dean is trying to stop Cas from murdering him (which seems like a perfectly reasonable plan of action to me), meanwhile, Sam has turned to the other guy in the black suit.

Suddenly, a sharp whistle rises over the noise in the room, cutting off conversations as cleanly as a well-placed shot can slice through a playing card.

It’s Bobby. Of course. “Now everyone’s going to shut up so I can figure out what is going on!” The silence seems to echo as loudly as the bickering did.

“You—talk,” Bobby gestures to Cas.

The angel’s lips tighten into a thin line, but he complies. “While Crowley and I share a mutual disdain for each other, we can sometimes count on him to work with us for mutually beneficial purposes. For example, he _did_ play a role in helping us prevent the first Apocalypse. But only because he wanted to take over Hell in Lucifer’s absence. He and his mother also recently…helped with the situation with The Darkness.”

I think back to a few weeks ago when I accused my other self of working with Castiel, the demon. Turns out, I wasn’t very far off. “Glad to know that I negotiate with terrorists in the future.”

“Oh, you do much more than negotiating with them.”

That’s the second time Crowley’s made a comment like that and I’m about to punch him for some answers when Bobby turns to the only unnamed participant to our little meeting. “Who’re you?”

The man looks around our group with more confidence than I think he really has. “Mick Davies,” he introduces himself. “And I’d like to ask you not to shoot me when I mention that I am with the British Men of Letters.”

Instantly, Sam lifts his weapon, pressing the gun to the guy’s throat.

“I can understand why you might have some hard feelings, Sam,” the man—Mick—says calmingly. “My colleagues behaved abhorrently and against orders when it came to you. They were only supposed to reach out to see what information you and your brother and your--” his eyes flicker over to Cas for just an instant “allies would _willingly_ share.”

“Well, wasn’t that quite a mix-up,” Crowley talks with his hands. “Like when you go into an art museum with an exact duplicate of a priceless painting hidden up your coat sleeve and somehow the two just…get switched. Completely unintentionally, I’m sure.”

I fight back a snort, but Crowley’s quick glance tells me he caught it anyway.

Mick spreads his arms open placatingly. “Like any organization, ours is headed by big voices with strong and, I’ll admit, somewhat _differing_ opinions of how we should introduce ourselves to the American hunter network. This resulted in…miscommunication. I assure you as Tony Bevel’s supervisor that I am taking steps to discipline her accordingly and to make sure that such unnecessary…tension doesn’t happen again.”

“Dude,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “I wouldn’t believe you even if you _didn’t_ have a British accent.” I jerk my chin in Crowley’s direction, “That goes for you, too, Dr. Evil.”

The King of Hell rolls his eyes.

Mick clears his throat. He reaches into his pants pocket, seemingly ignoring the way the rest of us reset our fingers on our triggers or adjust the grip of our blades.

“Considering the disadvantage my mere British-ness is putting me at,” he says with forced carelessness, “I can only ask that you give us the opportunity to let our future actions speak louder than words. My number,” he states, pressing a business card into Castiel’s hands. “Feel free to call me if you need assistance on a case. We might ask the same. After all, with all the resources the Men of Letters has at our disposal, we haven’t had much opportunity to converse with a friendly angel. I’ll admit to being very curious.”

Castiel accepts the card, frowning, but it’s nothing to the glare on the other Dean’s face. “I can hardly be considered a friendly angel to the people who hurt my family,” Cas responds, pointedly.

“Family…yes, understood,” Mick nods and, in the awkward silence that follows, offers to show himself out.

“Sam,” the other Dean requests.

“Got it,” my brother says, nudging Mick back up the stairs with his gun.

“So, what?” my future self continues, this time addressing Crowley. “You guys just happened to show up on our doorstep at the same time?”

“It would hardly be the most unlikely thing to happen to you, now would it, Squirrel?” Crowley argues. “Trust me, I want to have as little interaction with those Queen-and-country arseholes as possible. And so should you.”

“Do you actually know anything or are you just reading whatever paranoid thing is in your horoscope today?”

“The British Men of Letters are not dissimilar from angels. They like things by-the-book. They like playing within their rather-inept rules and punish anyone who doesn't do the same. Doesn’t exactly sound compatible with the Winchester way, now does it?

“Among the many lines they won’t cross is making any sort of alliance with questionable characters—and as hunters who have been known to befriend the odd vampire or werewolf—or King of Hell—I doubt this Mick wants to work with you so much as figure out whether or not they need to kill you.”

“So, if you didn't come with him, what’s the reason for your visit then?” Bobby gruffs and for a guy who still grumbles about having to use a cellphone sometimes, I got to admire how quickly he adjusts to new supernatural situations.

“Courtesy call. Apparently, my mother has sunk Lucifer to the bottom of the ocean. Thought you might like to know.”

Cas’s forehead scrunches in concentration and yet no one looks as surprised by this news as they should be, “Her magic won’t be able to keep him there for long.”

“No, it won’t, so I suggest you lot come up with one of your ridiculous plans in the meantime. Daddy’s Little Fallen Angel needs a time out—a permanent one.”

“You would think demon one-liners would get better eight years in the future,” I can’t help but mutter out of the side of my mouth…loudly.

Crowley takes a step forward. I take an automatic step back. But he seems to have gotten what he came for anyway. “Fire and brimstone…. It’s better than you usually smell these days. Come from Hell recently, then?”

“Leave him alone, Crowley…. He’s not used to all you angels and demons _sniffing_ things yet,” my other self insists.

“This is something that happens frequently?!”

I can’t help but notice that Cas suddenly takes an interest in the ceiling.

“Fine,” Crowley says, hands in his pockets. “I’ll leave you alone to play with yourself, but I expect to hear from you soon.” At that same moment, Sam comes in and leans against a pillar, arms crossed over his chest, “And by the way, Moose, I think there’s something wrong with your demon warding.”

Sam grimaces a smile and yet the fact that his body language is more relaxed with—I’ll say it again for the people in the back— _the King of Hell_ —than with Mick makes me wonder if these future people have got all their brain cells intact.

Crowley leaves, Bobby grabbing Sam immediately while my other self says something about calling a few other hunters—see if they’ve been approached by the British Men of Letters too.

“Are you okay?” Cas asks somewhat softly once the room is cleared.

“Sure,” I answer, automatically.

“Past Castiel might believe you when you lie like that, but I’ve learned not to.”

“Well, then I think I’ll like past Castiel better.”

Cas frowns and that brings me a vicious kind of satisfaction I hate myself for. “I’ll give you space then,” he says, turning on his heel and leaving, his trench-coat flapping in a way I can only assume is intentional. I shove my hands into my pockets wishing that anything—just _one thing_ —in my entire life could be simple.

My fingers brush something. Curious, I pull out a slip of paper folded in thirds. It's written on a scrap of parchment that could have been torn right off the Declaration of Independence or some shit. _Once you learn what happens to Moose at Stull Cemetery, call me. I can save his soul for the right price._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah. So many characters to work with this chapter, but I wanted to make sure the prescient plot points from Season 12 still popped up so that the story wasn't just living in a bubble. It also gave me a chance to write for characters I never have before. Hope you like it!


	21. 2016's Dean POV

_2016’s Dean POV_

I shake my hands out to the sides. This shouldn’t be too bad. Just taking a little casual stroll through my best friend’s head. Not that different from visiting Sam’s Heaven… Of course, that turned out to be a frickin’ disaster—a front row seat to how much I _wasn’t_ wanted.

Why the hell am I doing this again?

Cas comes into the room and it’s obvious that he’s as tense as I am.

Most likely, he still doesn’t want me here. But I asked and he’s letting me—because Cas always goes along with my shot-in-the-dark ideas and my must-have-a-death-wish plans. And I don’t care who Mini Me turns out to be on the other side of this time travel mess, he’s gonna need that. Him.

And it’s _my_ job to make sure he damn well _knows_ that.

“What are you doing with that thing?” I ask, pointing to a familiar crystal, its sharp-looking edges catching the light and causing it to have a slight halo. It’s the same one that held all of the souls we were planning to use against Amara—a reminder of how close I came to going _kaboom_. Or maybe _kablooey_.

“Well…,” the angel begins.

That’s when my less-good looking twin shows up, something of John Winchester’s judgments in his eyes. I take a half step backward. Cas clears his throat. He turns his body halfway between him and me, which helps soften Other Dean’s posture—but not mine. “Since there are more of us now, it will be harder for me to maintain the concentration necessary to project into both of your minds. Plus, I had to find a way for you--” Cas nods to me, “to contribute memories as well. I’ve modified the spell on the crystal to hold thoughts instead of souls, so we can then project them around us.”

“So…it’s going to be like watching a movie now?” Other Me asks.

“No, it will still seem as corporeal as it was before—just without me having to touch both of you. In addition, there’s still some lingering power in the crystal…. Hopefully, that means my grace won’t drain as quickly and we can go through memories quicker.”

Between Sam, Cas, and now Rowena, I’ve learned not to try to understand how magic stuff works. Just go with it and deal with the consequences—if there _are_ consequences—later. “So, what part of Cas’s greatest hits are we starting with today?”

“These moments are hardly my greatest hits, Dean. I’m not proud of many of the things I did back then.” Cas lets out a tired breath, “We’ll be looking at the breaking of the seal of Samhain.”

My mind struggles to rewind that far.

Witches, I remember. God, I hate witches. Even if one of them was kinda hot.

“Well, no time like the present to go digging up the past,” I say, faking more eagerness than I feel.

Cas nods. It looks stilted—like Jesse Turner has once again made him into an action-figure, only life-size this time.

Automatically, my hand comes out to squeeze his shoulder. I press my thumb into the muscle just a little. He tilts his head slightly, a familiar gesture, but this time, it causes the bottom of his cheek to rest against my hand. My face flushes.

“Everything’s gonna be fine,” I promise—himself or me, I don’t know—trying to retract my hand without making the moment weird. By the way Other Me clears his throat, I doubt I succeeded.

Cas sighs, straightening—I think more out of resignation than agreement. But he has always walked calmly into battles—even internal ones. “You’re right,” he says, sneaking a not-so-subtle glance at Double Trouble that makes me want to put my hand back on his shoulder just because. “Let’s begin.”

There’s a flash of grace in his eyes, a swirl of mist inside the crystal, and suddenly, we are not in Kansas anymore.

The first thing I see is a baby-faced Sam pointing a gun at me.

“Sam, Sam, wait!” Another me rushes in, putting a hand on Sam’s barrel in warning. “It’s Castiel. The angel.”

Castiel feels curiosity bloom inside him—a tiny, yellow thing—turning like a flower toward The Righteous Man. Dean should know by now that bullets do not affect him and, yet, he took steps to make sure he wasn’t shot. Was this a lapse of memory on his part or just born of his innate desire to protect?

_“Woah, This is a mind trip,” I mutter—the different perspectives within me all fighting to come out on top, like ocean waves overlapping one another._

“Him, I don’t know,” Memory Me mentions and though I remember I was talking about Uriel, Castiel doesn’t turn to give us a view of him.

Instead, he addresses Sam, and it’s weird to feel the vibrations of that deep growl in my chest when he says, “Hello.”

“Oh my God—er—uh—I didn’t mean to—sorry. It’s an honor, really, I—I’ve heard a lot about you,” Sam babbles, stepping forward and holding out his hand to shake. Castiel looks at the hand, then back at Sam’s face—curiosity appearing again, but a more subdued color this time—until he eventually realizes what he is being asked to do and moves his arm up and down mechanically.

_“Sammy’s stuttering worse than that time he dragged us to Neil Gaiman’s book signing—the nerd,” the Other Dean snorts. “How are we even related?”_

_Dude really doesn’t know Cas well enough if he’s asking questions like that._

_“Cas,” I say, seriously. “I swear that if you provide any helpful ‘insight’ about how our parents did the dirty, I am changing the Netflix password without telling you.”_

_Even if I can’t see the angel, I can feel him frown at me, but that’s better than needing brain bleach._

“And I, you. Sam Winchester…,” Castiel responds. “The boy with the demon blood. Glad to see you’ve ceased your extracurricular activities.”

_Considering that everything with Cas used to have a double meaning back then, it’s weird to realize that, in this moment, he meant exactly what he said and no more. He was pleased that Sam might redeem himself—even if it was more the pleasure of a soldier hearing orders were being followed than any concern for Sam’s well-being._

_“I meant that better than it likely came across to Sam,” Cas points out, obviously thinking along the same lines._

_“We call each other ‘Bitch’ and ‘Jerk’ as signs of affection. I’m sure he’s over it.”_

“Who’s your friend?” Memory Dean whispers. Castiel ignores the part of him that wants to deny that Uriel is his friend. What is a friend besides a companion, an ally? And Uriel is both. The fact that Castiel dislikes him is almost irrelevant—not to mention unfounded. Instead of answering The Righteous Man, he launches into a long interrogation about the Winchester’s progress finding the witch. 

“That’s unfortunate…. The raising of Samhain is one of the 66 seals.” Castiel interrupts Dean once it is clear that the two humans aren’t far along. He knew the status of their investigation already, of course, but he finds himself wishing they _had_ neutralized the witch already. He’s here to test Dean, which involves playing a role—one that will make Dean hate him a little more than he already does.

“Okay, great,” Memory Dean says. “Now that you’re here, why don’t you tell us where the witch is, we’ll gank her and everybody goes home.”

“We are not omniscient,” Castiel explains, carefully. “This witch is very powerful; she’s cloaked even to our methods.”

“Okay, well, we already know who she is, so if we work together—” Sam suggests, his enthusiasm dimmed but still clearly there beneath the surface.

“Enough of this,” Uriel enunciates, his voice like a slap in the face. Castiel glances at the other angel—though he is still nothing more than his silhouette against the window.

“Okay, who are you and why should I care?” Memory Dean asks.

Castiel’s grace pulls in tighter, a defensive stance as the other angel finally approaches. “This is Uriel, he’s what you might call a… specialist.” His footsteps are unnecessarily heavy against the patterned carpet.

“What kind of specialist? What are you gonna do?” Dean asks, suspiciously.

Castiel hesitates—just for a second—but even that second is more hesitation than is seemly. “You—both of you—” his gaze flicks to Sam when he includes him—but then quickly returns to Dean. “You need to leave this town immediately.”

“Why?!” Dean demands.

“Because,” Castiel says, giving himself another pause he shouldn’t need. “We’re about to destroy it.”

Dean’s reaction isn’t what Castiel expects. It’s not fury— _not yet_ —but closer to disbelief. “So, this is your plan? You’re gonna smite the whole friggin’ town?”

“There are a thousand people here!” Sam protests, and distantly, Castiel hears Uriel argue that this is not the first city he’s purged, but Castiel is still watching Dean.

“Look, I understand this is regrettable.”

“Regrettable?” Dean scoffs.

“It’s the lives of one thousand against the lives of six billion. There’s a bigger picture here.”

“Right,” Dean says, with a jerk of his chin, false casualness in every line of his body. “Cause you’re bigger picture kinds of guys.”

“Lucifer cannot rise,” Castiel retorts, taking a half step closer to him, and this, at least the angel does believe. He’s never met the Morningstar, but he saw the Hell he created—saw what it did to the bright soul in front of him who must have shone even brighter before four decades in that place—so he can only imagine what Lucifer could do to the rest of his father’s beautiful creations.

And yet…consenting, in any way, to the murder of a thousand people would also dim Dean’s soul—and Castiel doesn’t want that either.

_“Uh, can we get a new camera angle on this?” Past Dean asks, and I’ll admit, it’s kinda weird just watching my own face come closer and closer until it’s all that I can see._

_“Unfortunately, that is not… I can’t change…” Cas clears his throat, the awkwardness rolling off him more palpable than it was in that brothel. “As I explained before, angel memories are fixed to what we were looking and feeling at the time and I--”_

_But there isn’t time for him to finish any of his sentences because the memory just keeps on playing._

“We'll stop this witch before she summons anyone--” Sam starts and Castiel should pay attention to the point the younger Winchester is making. But Dean hasn’t broken his stare so Castiel won’t either—knowing that when challenged, The Righteous Man has always challenged back—and something in the angel desperately hopes he’ll do it again this time.

Dean’s pink tongue comes out to wet his lips and Castiel watches, fascinated. This is a nervous gesture, is it not _? But why should he be nervous?_ The angel wonders, noting the way the hunter's heart rate picks up as he admires the lingering shine…

Suddenly, the memory is torn from our eyes, like a sheet being snatched from a bed—and all three of us are in the library again, surrounded by the familiar smell of dust and gunpowder.

“Dean, perhaps it would be better if we looked at the rest of this scene from your perspective?” Cas suggests in what might be a calm voice for another person—except that he’s distinctly looking over my shoulder instead of at my face, and I’d swear his hands are clenching and unclenching inside his trench coat pockets. “Or…a summary of events might also…?”

He adjusts his body towards a stock-still Mini Me, to say—something—and, for once, I’m kinda glad that my double has his attention because my cheeks and the tops of my ears feel like I just fell asleep on a beach somewhere.

This is…bad. Not Apocalypse bad… _maybe, I hope_ …but it still gives me the distinct impression that something’s about to go kaboom. Or kablooey.

Cas isn’t looking directly at my other self either, which is probably for the best because he looks like he’s just seen a ghost—or, more accurately, what a non-hunter would look like if he’d seen a ghost.

“Beer!” I exclaim a little too loudly, causing the Other Dean to jump. “I mean…beer? Anyone want one…? Because I’m going to…uh…” _Since when has this chair been here?_ “You know, maybe we should all take a beer break…but like, not all in the kitchen. Or, you know what, I’m going to go for a drive, maybe….”

At this point, walking backwards no longer seems like the smartest idea, so I hastily turn around—not really sure which of the things I said I’m actually going to do—or where I’m going to go—but just knowing that it’s _away._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, you know how last chapter I said I hated doing so many characters in one scene...? This is worse. Because three of them are Dean.
> 
> Anyway, this chapter did not go where I intended it to go--which was to get through the bench scene at least--but then I was watching the episode and the lip-licking could not go unmentioned, so...stuff happened.
> 
> I am genuinely unsure whose POV is next, so comment with votes for  
> -2008 Dean  
> -2016 Dean (again)  
> -Cas


	22. 2016's Cas POV

_2016 Cas’s POV_

“Cas…?” Sam’s voice asks cautiously, no doubt wondering why I’m sitting in the library—by myself—with the lights out. It seemed like a waste of electricity to keep them on when I can see just fine without them. Nonetheless, I flick on a desk lamp at his approach. “…What are you doing?”

“I’m…thinking.” Though _sulking_ is more accurate than I’d like to admit.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

My first instinct is to say “no.” Maybe a part of me still believes like the other angels do—that feelings are shameful things that should be hidden away like a drug habit—at least where my own are concerned. But when I look back at my biggest mistakes, they all seemed to start with me keeping secrets—with keeping my _emotions_ to myself. And wasn’t that the whole point of sharing my memories with young Dean in the first place? To stop myself from repeating the errors of my past…?

I can’t decide, so I don’t say anything. But Sam seems to take my non-answer as encouragement, arranging himself in the chair across from me, hands on his knees. His body language is open—patient and kind.

If I could look into his soul right now—a soul that has been free of demon taint for years—would it be as bright as his brother’s? To be honest, it might have always been. Time has taught me that I wasn’t as objective back then as I once believed. Perhaps, some of the glow I saw when I looked at Dean’s essence was my own grace responding _to_ it.

Sam dips his head to catch my gaze and draw it upwards. “It’s OK, you know…If you just want to sit here quietly too. I know that you usually save the emotional talks for Dean, which—I’m not going to lie—is kind of ironic.”

I smile—at him, but also at myself—because he has a point. “I’m actually wondering if I should have sought your advice out sooner. I trust you to be discreet, Sam. And, frankly, it’s hard to discuss Dean _with_ Dean.”

Sam’s laugh is short, hard, and sympathetic. “Oh, _trust me_ , I know.”

My fingers run along the grain of the chair’s arms—rereading the story of the tree the wood came from for the hundredth time. “What else do you…know…about today?”

“Not much. I know one Dean is in his room claiming he’s not hungry—and the other went out to the strip club.” I wince—an uncommon enough gesture for me that Sam can’t help but notice.

And yet, I still have to ask, “Which Dean went out?”

His lips twitch, “2008.”

 _Oh._ “That’s…” _Better._ “Unexpected.”

We give the quiet a chance to settle in—like a dog walking around in three lazy circles before deeming it comfortable enough to rest.

When Sam does eventually speak, it’s gentle—respectful of the peace he intends to break. “So, I said I didn’t know what happened, but… I can guess.”

Resigned, I turn to him more fully.

“Look, Cas, we’ve all good at ignoring the elephant in the room. It’s kind of the Winchester way. But that never really solves anything—and frankly, it can be exhausting pretending something’s not there, so…” He looks across the way at the stacks of bookshelves. “I’m just going to be honest here—and you can tell me if I’m out of line.”

I nod.

“You love my brother. And not the way you love me or Claire or—well, anyone else really. You’re _in_ love with him.”

I hesitate, then I nod again.

“Which is probably hard to hide when you’re letting him into your head.”

I sigh, feeling a bit like a ribbon getting dragged into the sky after a rogue balloon.

“You had to have known he’d get freaked out,” Sam points out, gently.

“It did seem rather…inevitable.” And it was the reason that I didn’t want the older Dean involved in the first place. Back during 2008, 2009, and beyond, I got used to Dean looking at me like I’d disappointed him somehow, but after eight years of messing up in his eyes, I'd hoped never to put that look on his face again. Still, “I didn’t think the issue would come up so soon….”

I close my eyes. The blackness behind my closed lids seems to teem with unseen colors—oil slick blues and greens and purples like my wings.

Briefly, I explain to Sam what happened during the transfer, tightening control over my grace to stop warmth from flooding my vessel.

“You have to understand, Sam. I’ve always felt…strongly for Dean since the very beginning. But…it wasn’t always _this_ —what I feel now—and it wasn’t always… I didn’t understand my own emotions back then. So, when Dean looks at the memories—when _I_ look at the memories—I see them in a different light than I did the first time. I didn’t realize that I was quite so… blatant.” I’m rambling. Another human sign of weakness. I should really stop.

“OK, OK, I get all that,” Sam insists. “And I can understand if you’re embarrassed or whatever. But, underneath all that, I hope you know that Dean’s not just running scared because of what he picked up from you…. It’s what he saw in himself, too.”

“I--” My forehead furrows. “I don’t understand your meaning.”

“Dean—he—you….” Sam runs his fingers through his hair, restlessly. “I feel like I’ve been trying and failing to explain my brother my entire life—so bear with me here.” He takes a breath. “Dean is all or nothing, right? When it comes to people he cares about. And so, he only gives himself permission to care about very few people. It puts him at too much risk otherwise.

“But then you came along. And he knew he couldn’t trust you. You weren’t human. You took Anna back for brainwashing. You threatened us. More than once. He didn’t _choose_ to let you in. And yet, I could tell from the first time he talked about you that you meant—something—to him.

“I saw it again with the whole Leviathan thing. I know, you don’t want to talk about that. But as angry as he was with you—both before and after you died—in the middle, there—I haven’t ever seen him mourn like that. Not with Dad. Or with Ellen or Jo. Maybe when I died, but I wasn't there for that. And it was clear, from my perspective at least, that he was mad at himself for caring so much—especially after what happened to Bobby—but he still _did_."

“Sam,” I interrupt. “While I appreciate the sentiment, I’m still not quite sure where you’re going with this, considering the Leviathans happened several years after the memory in question….”

“Yeah, I guess I got a little off track. I just wanted you to give you some context for this next part.” Sam looks at me—his hazel-green eyes the color of camouflage—so open and yet hiding so much—leaving me no clue as to what he’s going to say next.

“You look at that memory and you judge yourself for being…attracted to Dean. I think that Dean looks at that same memory and gets worked up because he sees _himself_ … being attracted to _you_.”

In the minute it takes me to collect my thoughts, a dying star, churning with nuclear fuel, in a galaxy far away collapses in on itself. 120 people across the world die and another 250 are born. Someone in a small town in Italy recites the name “Cassiel” as she completes her religious history report on obscure angels—and I can comprehend all of that much easier than the words that were just said to me.

“I…don’t appreciate you making a joke of my feelings, Sam,” I inform him, fingernails digging into the wood arms of my chair, adding new grooves that weren’t there before.

“Come on, Cas… I wouldn’t… You know I wouldn’t. And besides, I thought that we weren’t pretending anymore. I think… a part of you knows that Dean isn’t quite as opposed to the idea of…well, you…as he appears.”

I don’t say anything, so Sam just presses on. “There’s a reason that Memory You noticed Dean licking his lips and thought it was strange. It _is_ strange. But he does it around you a lot. The staring? You’ve got to realize that’s not…. Dean doesn’t just look at _anyone_ like that. I’m not trying to get your hopes up. I’m not saying Dean’s ever going to accept that part of him. But you should know…it’s not just your feelings he’s running away from.”

“He said…I was like a brother to him. Less than a week ago,” I protest, feeling irrationally angry with Sam for what he’s trying to convince me of. Dean winks at waitresses and makes innuendos at female gas station clerks and puts on his dark green button-up shirt to go to bars on nights he doesn’t want Sam or me to join him. And I don’t mind. I don’t mind being his family or his “buddy” or his “pal” because that means I’m a part of his life—maybe even an important part—and that’s enough for me. I would never ask for more. And here Sam is trying to convince me that….

“If you haven’t noticed, Dean lies a lot. Says he’s fine when he’s not. Say’s he doesn’t remember hell when it haunts his nightmares every night. He thinks that if he says something enough that it will make it true.” Sam glances at the nightstand between us where Rowena’s crystal sits atop a stack of books. He picks it up, testing the sharp edges.

“I just don’t want him to feel uncomfortable around me…or—or ask me to leave. That’s all. I don’t care about the rest of it,” I say through partially gritted teeth.

“You've fought before. You've almost killed each other. You've _died_ in front of each other. Nothing has ever kept you two apart permanently before. I really don’t think this is going to be what does it,” Sam responds, holding the crystal up to me. I resist the urge to smack it away—send it flying to the far corners of the library. “How does this work exactly? Do you just concentrate or…?”

“Essentially,” I mutter, distractedly—ready to reiterate _again_ that I'm not hoping for anything from Dean besides his friendship—because I _need_ Sam to know, need him to understand—

Suddenly, the library disappears and we're surrounded by four walls I haven't seen in a very long time.

“What? _Sam?_ ” I demand, but the memory is already playing. A memory of Dean and I looking at each other silently while Sam watches from Bobby’s kitchen window, suspicion creeping in.

_Flash._

Sam opens the door to a motel room in Indiana and realizes from the crackle of tension in the room that he just walked into _a moment—_ a moment he can't get back for his brother and his angel no matter how quickly he pretends he wants an iced tea from the vending machine.

_Flash._

Sam notices Cas emerge from the bathroom, the dirt and grime of Purgatory gone from his face and trench coat, but, in reality, he's watching Dean and the way he shifts uncomfortably as his eyes rake over the angel.

_Flash._

_Flash._

_Flash._

“You and Dean can ignore it all you want, Cas,” the real Sam says in my mind. “It doesn’t make it any less real.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Cas ended up being the winner of the last vote! But for those who wanted 2008 Dean's POV, that's coming up next!
> 
> Also, if anyone wants a visual representation of what Sam showed Cas, I got the idea from this [Youtube video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zwul2uv0RUA). Most of it is scenes from the show that Sam literally could not be there for, but I assume that there was an equivalent number of moments that he was there for--playing the awkward third wheel.
> 
> Til next time


	23. 2008's Dean POV

_2008’s Dean POV_

I hear shuffling behind me. Swiveling, I see Sam in pajama bottoms and nothing else, and my eyes nearly bug out of my head. It’s like he’s been training to be Schwarzenegger for the last eight years. Not that I’m jealous or anything. He can spend however many hours working out as he wants while _I_ get laid instead.

Meanwhile, Sam takes his own turn looking me over, his eyes narrowing in on the bottle of Jack with disapproval. _At least, I’m wearing a shirt,_ I think, scowling back at him.

“See you’ve been hitting that a little hard tonight,” he says, pointedly, walking past me to the fridge. Its light seems unusually bright in the dark kitchen, its buzz like an angry wasp’s nest. When he faces me again, he’s holding a fuckin’ _sparkling water_.

“Yeah, well,” I size up what’s left of the amber liquid before shrugging. “That’s Future Me’s problem,” I tell him, realizing the obvious joke a second late—then snorting.

Sam fights it for a minute but ultimately fails, lips quirking up at the edges. Pride swells through me like it does any time I can put a smile on his stupid face. And, suddenly, this weird-ass bunker feels a bit more like a home than it has since I arrived.

“So…” Sam begins, and that puts me back on the edge again, instantly.

“So…” drawn out like that is different from the “So, get this…” that precedes a hunt or a random Jeopardy fact. It’s the little brother equivalent of “We need to talk,” usually coming before sentences like, “So…I applied to some colleges” or “So…I know you’re upset about what those assholes said,” or “So…do you think you’ll ever want to settle down…?”

In _this_ case, he says, “So…any reason you’re up at 3 o’clock in the morning?” trying to sound all casual. “Something on your mind?”

“Maybe, I just like sitting in the dark by myself.”

“Well, you wouldn’t be the only one,” he mutters under his breath.

“What?”

“Uh, nothing. Never mind.” He takes a long sip of water, which turns out to be half the bottle, plastic crunching under his hand in the process. I’m vaguely surprised that Cas lets them get away with using disposables—but I don’t ask because that will give Sam an opening—so I just assume they recycle.

“Memory transfers going OK?” Sam asks once he’s done.

“Just peachy,” I tell him, sarcasm as heavy as ice cream over pie.

Sam sighs, leaning against his elbows, his arms stretched out over the counter, while I try to decide my chances of bolting for the exit.

“I know I haven’t exactly been in your situation,” he murmurs at last. “But I might understand better than you think. There was a time when I, uh… Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you this yet…” _Well, I’m definitely not letting it go then._ “I kinda, er, lost my soul for a while,” he admits, catching my eyes at the last second.

“What the fuck do you mean ‘lost’? Did you put it in the washer and it never came out?”

He winces. “I don’t want you to overreact, but—well, I died—and ended up going to hell.”

Red flashes behind my eyes in the time it takes me to blink. “How long?” I croak.

“Well, that’s where it gets kind of complicated…. Cas went to get me back almost as soon as I jumped in the Pit at Stull Cemetery--”

“You… _what?_ ”

“But, um, I was in a…more secure area of Hell than you were, so he could only retrieve my body, not my soul. Took over a year to get that back.”

Somehow, I end up on my feet, the ice in my veins making me shake vaguely. I think about the four months—translated to forty years—that I spent being sliced and doing the slicing, all so that my puppy-eyed, mathlete, Jolly Green Giant of a brother could stay topside. _Nothing_ —it was all for nothing.

 _Worse_ than nothing since the first time he died, he probably got to go to Heaven at least.

“Dean, don’t look like that, it’s--”

“If the next words out of your mouth are ‘it’s fine’, I swear to God, Sam--”

“You’re right, you’re right. What happened wasn’t fine—or anywhere close to it. But _I’m_ fine. Right here, right now, I promise.”

He says it so earnestly that I just want to believe it—the way you want to believe you’re safe under your bed covers when really, you’re just lying there, vulnerable, without shoes on. “That place changes you, Sam.” _Destroys you,_ more like.

“I know that,” he insists. “ _Trust_ me, I do. But it’s like any trauma, Dean. You don’t move past it, but you…grow around it. You stop dreaming about it every night. You don’t think about it every day.”

 _Maybe YOU can,_ I think, knowing I’ve never let go of a damn thing my whole life—but Sam’s never been me—not by a long shot. I hesitantly sit back down again.

“Anyway,” he breathes, looking somewhat relieved at the change in my posture—not even complaining when I reach for the Jack again. “The point I was trying to make is, I sort of got divided into thirds during that time. There was me…who I was before it all. And then there was the me that was wandering around up here without a conscience. And then there was the me that was down in the Pit, being battered around like a cat toy. And after we got my soul back, I had to—to combine all of those people back together—and it was _hard,_ Dean.” His voice wavers. “It was really hard trying to figure out which version of me was real.”

His eyes are pleading with me and I know what he wants me to say, but what’s the point? What’s the point of admitting that I feel like one of these freaky Russian dolls with all the miniatures that fit inside one another? Except I’m not sure if Future Me is the outer doll or the inner one. Is he something I’m destined to be or someone I already am inside? And what about the fact that I never wanted to be a fuckin’ toy in the first place? And certainly not one who—

Sam, reading the room, continues on without me saying squat. “Eventually, I realized I was never gonna be able to sort out the contradiction. Because, I _do_ have darkness in me, but I’ve also done a hell of a lot of good. I just told myself, who I was didn’t matter as much as who I chose to be—and that, over time, those choices would _become_ who I am.”

“You sound a lot like a fortune cookie for someone who hasn’t ordered Chinese takeout since I’ve been here.” I should leave it at that, but I feel compelled to add, “Besides, I don’t _get_ a choice, now do I?”

“Of _course_ , you do, Dean. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I know it probably feels like the three of us are—pushing you down a path you aren’t sure you want to go down—but we all know how important choice is. We’re trying to give you the information to make your own.”

“You’re saying you don’t mind if I don’t become him?” I ask, skeptically.

“I’m _saying_ you’re my brother and I love you—no matter who you are or what you like.”

I scowl, suspecting we’re talking about something else all of a sudden.

“Yeah, well, what if I go back to the past and decide I don’t want a creepy angel watching me all the time--” _Pushing into my thoughts like he pushes into my personal space, not understanding he doesn’t have any right to be there._ “Doesn’t that put pretty much all of your plans to hell?”

“Dean thinks so, but I’m not worried about it.”

“Why?” I demand, crossing my arms over my chest. “You think that, once I get to know my Castiel, I’ll change my mind?”

“Hey, I’ll never be one to underestimate the power of an irrational Winchester grudge. If you’re really determined not to be friends with Cas in your timeline, I’m sure you’ll find a way to keep him at arms’ length.”

“Then… what? You think that Cas is just so good at heart that he’s going to rebel against Heaven and the grand design even if I’m a dick to him?”

“Cas didn’t side with us because you cared about _him_ —he sided with us because he saw how much you cared for everyone and everything _else_. So, yeah, I have faith that he’ll do it all again no matter what you change.” He drinks the rest of his water before opening up a cabinet under the sink—and what do you know? There’s recycling.

He steps around the counter until he’s on the same side as me, puts an arm on my shoulder. “We’re all our choices—like I said. And if there’s one thing I know about Cas, it’s that the offer doesn’t matter. He’s always chosen you.”

With that, I’m once again left alone in the silent kitchen—my thoughts going a mile a minute. _Choices._

I pull out the burner cellphone I’d been given—filled with pictures I sent myself from my Other Half’s phone—and with a few contacts I decided might be useful.

I type in _66_ , hesitate for a moment, then add the final _6._

“Well, hello Squirrel. What can I do for you?” a voice purrs before even the first ring.

“What did you mean about saving Sammy’s soul?” I ask, getting right to the point.

Because if there's one thing I am for sure, it's a big brother.


	24. 2016's Dean POV

_2016 Dean’s POV_

I feel like I’m going insane. Like, what the fuck is wrong with me?

So, what if Cas looked at me weird eight freakin’ years ago. It’s _Cas._ He _always_ looks at me weird. He looks at the whole world weird—to the point that it shouldn’t be weird anymore.

The more I think about it, the more I realize there wasn’t really anything _significant_ about what happened in that memory. So, he was a bit…drawn to me or something. Noticed me noticing him. I was a _human_. He was an _angel_. We were feeling each other out.

I wince at the internal choice of words.

 _It’s not weird,_ I decide again.

But if that’s so, why did Cas drop the memory? Why did all three of us act like something weird was going on?

My stomach growls like a garbage disposal. It’s ass o’clock in the morning, which means I haven’t eaten for almost fifteen hours. And it seems stupid to just sit here, listening to it, when I could do something about it, so…

I pull on my Dead Guy robe and shuffle out into the hall, aware of the _Angels don’t sleep thing_ a little more than usual, even though there’s no reason to be avoiding Cas. I just…want to figure out what the heck actually went down before I talk to him.

Maybe that’s why, instead of winding up in the kitchen, my steps take me to the library. The stupid crystal’s sitting on one of the side tables, pulsing purple almost like it’s got a heartbeat, as I try to remember how it works. _Does it…keep the memories you put into it_? I wonder, palming it, shaking it, stopping myself from smelling it. _Like if I wanted to watch that whole scene with Uriel again, could I…?_

The world I get sucked into is—blurry, to say the least. It’s like someone painted a picture of a motel room and then left it outside in the rain until it turned muddy.

“Did you find the witch?” Castiel asks, and as I focus on him, he seems to gain definition—blue eyes bright, jaw sharp—but there’s still something _off_ about him. And that’s when I realize I shouldn’t be seeing him at all—not if this was his memory.

“We know who she is,” Sam insists. _Or was I the one to say that?_ A second later, the scene resets. “We know who she is,” my own voice says, exasperated.

“Something something I’m a dick who wants to kill everyone,” Uriel rumbles back, while fake Cas stares and Sam’s hair changes lengths repeatedly in the periphery.

 _OK, this is clearly not helpful,_ I think to myself.

I probably should not be as shocked as I am when I get an answer back.

 _Would you like some assistance?_ a familiar voice presses against my consciousness, forcing my already-tentative hold on the memory to slip away….

“Uh, Hey there, Cas,” I stutter, trying not to startle at seeing the real angel in front of me, even as my eyes travel over his face without my permission. It’s the hollows around his eyes and the shape of his nose that I didn’t quite remember right, I decide, with something like guilt. I see Cas almost every day. I should know this.

He spends a moment just standing there, letting me look—so still that it sort of freaks me out when he takes a step closer. “Were you looking for something in particular?” he questions, the crystal lighting up brighter as he nears it.

“Uh, no, not really,” I say, shoving it, and my hands, into the pockets of my robe, feeling more underdressed than usual.

“Dean…” Cas mutters, warningly.

“I think I was just…overwhelmed yesterday or something. Thought I saw shit that wasn’t there.”

Cas pauses and any hope that I had he was just going to agree with me sinks to the bottom of my stomach like a stone. “You’re a very observant person, Dean,” he whispers, finally. “It’s part of what makes you an excellent hunter.”

Is he…? “What are you saying, Cas?”

“I’m saying the same thing I said before you decided to join us. Memory transfers are personal. And as much as we’d like to ignore the uncomfortable moments, there’s going to be more of them, so we should likely talk about what’s bothering you.”

Well, that sounds worse than another 40 years in Hell. “You want pie? ‘Cause I want pie. I’m going to go …”

Cas raises one eyebrow—and, yeah, I shoulda known that wasn’t going to work.

“Fine. Let’s… _talk,_ ” I huff, flopping into one of the nearby chairs, legs spread out straight in front of me. A clock ticks. My own breathing sounds doubly loud in the room.

“Well?” I ask, after a while.

“I’m thinking. This is… difficult for me too, Dean,” Cas admits, and…

“I get that.”

Another minute passes, but I’ve never been particularly patient when it comes to stuff like this—can barely wait for microwave popcorn to finish popping, which is why I usually send Sammy to handle it. “So, uh, are all my memory shares gonna look like they were run through the food processor…?” I ask, to distract himself and me. Kinda seems pointless if that's the case.

“No,” Cas responds, sounding surprisingly sure of that. “It’s likely this particular moment just wasn’t important to you.”

“Yeah, this whole case is kinda fuzzy,” I admit. “ I remember being covered in Dead Man’s blood because, gross, and Sam using his powers again, but…” My tongue scrapes across the bottom edge of my teeth. “I think what I remember most is talking to you in that park—thinking you might…might actually be on my side.”

Cas smiles sideways. It’s one of those smiles he rarely uses anymore, and when my hand brushes the crystal still in my pocket….

“You misunderstand me, Dean, I’m not like you think. I was _praying_ that you would choose to save the town,” Castiel murmurs, leaning forward, shoulders hunched.

“You were?” he asks, and it’s meant to come across as a scoff, but the antagonism seems to have drained out of both of them without Sam and Uriel there, observing.

“These people, they’re all my father’s creations. They’re works of art,” Cas explains, eyes scanning the crowd of small children, screaming in play on the monkey bars. And Dean believes him, for some stupid reason.

“And yet…” the angel sighs. Dean’s life is full of “And yet”s. “Even though you stopped Samhain, the seal was broken, and we are one step closer to hell on earth, for all creation. Now, that’s not an expression, Dean,” And the hunter wonders if he should start a drinking game of how many times the angel says his name. “You, of all people, should appreciate what that means.”

He does—“appreciate” it—if by “appreciate” the angel means “dreads.”

He feels the hollowness of this victory. Even looking out at the same playground Cas is seeing and knowing that he saved them all, he feels more separated from them than the angel is. Part of him thinks of them as actors on a screen—false visions planted behind his closed eyelids—a glimpse of the sun that Alastair will rip away, laughing at him for ever believing it was real.

“Can I tell you something if you promise not to tell another soul?” Castiel whispers, as gentle as that low voice can probably get.

“Okay,” Dean answers—and he thinks he might even mean it.

“I’m not a…hammer as you say. I have questions. I have doubts. I don’t know what is right and what is wrong anymore, whether you passed or failed here. But in the coming months, you will have more decisions to make. I don’t envy the weight that’s on your shoulders, Dean.” Drink. “I truly don’t.”

They look at each other. But it’s not like in the barn, where the angel was trying to pierce his soul, or like it was in Bobby’s kitchen, where Dean tried to force his way past cold marble eyes. This is giving, not taking—building a bridge, not demanding entry. And he thinks that maybe they understand each other, at least a little.

And yet, something must have gone missing in translation—because the second Dean looks away, Castiel is gone. And Dean realizes he’d wanted him to stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings!
> 
> So, something like announcements. A couple of commenters have mentioned things to the effect of wondering what 2008 Dean will do in the past--and, to be honest, that was never part of the story I intended to write. I have always seen this as a primarily 2016 Dean/Cas fic, dealing with their issues with the help of some "outside" perspectives. With that in mind, I do think this fic is going to get wrapped up in ten/fifteen chapters or so, we'll see. I am, however, planning on writing a "Wrong Place, Right Time" sequel that will deal with the time travel-ly stuff and be a bit more action-oriented, so long as there is interest for that.
> 
> Cas POV next.


	25. 2016's Cas POV

_2016’s Cas POV_

The crystal rolls out of Dean’s hand onto the floor, but it takes me a second to notice—I’m still seeing the sun of that memory behind my closed eyelids.

“That one was, uh, clearer, yeah,” Dean murmurs, looking away towards a landscape painting on the wall.

“I enjoyed that,” I admit, quietly. _Probably more than I should._ Angels sometimes share thoughts like this—but usually only among intimate companions. After all, the blending of two into one—the press of shared sensations—isn’t too dissimilar from the reasons that humans have sex. And I’d long ago accepted that I want to get as close to Dean Winchester as possible.

Of course, I can’t tell him any of this. Instead, I attempt to soothe his obviously frayed nerves. “We might not always be on the same page, Dean, but, if it helps at all, I didn’t want to leave you then, either. I regretted leaving your side often in those days.”

“Glad it’s become easier with time then.” The smile he plasters over his face is like a discount sticker on a bag of Gas-n-Sip chips—the orange kind that always seems to be curling at one corner.

My forehead furrows. We’d discussed this not too long ago, but… “It really hurts you, my absences,” I say. I hadn’t realized before.

It reminds me of what Sam was arguing this morning—that Dean takes my deaths especially hard. And how I hadn’t believed him. But I suppose, as much as I think I know Dean in all his shades and moods, I can never know what he is like in my absence.

“I’m not your keeper. You can do whatever,” he mutters, shrugging.

My frown deepens, feeling the wrongness of his statement on a visceral level. I can’t do most of the things I want to do. Can’t let myself look at Dean too long or too intently. Can’t stand too near him without him telling me to back away. Can’t even protect him from all the things that would wish him harm. He wants me close—but not too close. Suddenly, I feel deep sympathy for the moon and the delicate balance it must maintain not to go flying into space or crashing into the Earth.

“Dean,” I say, carefully. “I’ve chosen to stay by your side both literally and figuratively for almost a decade. The only reason I would ever purposefully leave your life is if you told me to go.”

He scoffs, “That’s never gonna happen.”

“I’m worried you will—if you don’t like what you see in my memories.” There’s no point in hiding it. I’ve kept so many secrets from him—some for my own benefit, some for his—but now he’s going to learn them all and if he’s going to reject me for them, I would rather he do it here, now—not tomorrow, or next week, or next month.

The last of his embarrassment gone, Dean looks at me with narrowed eyes. It’s a watered-down suspicion—possibly only a drop in a pitcher full of something else—and yet, I still don’t like to see it on his face even though I’m the one telling him to put it there. “You never talk around shit unless it’s bad. So come on, what’s this _really_ about?”

“I killed over a thousand versions of you as a part of Naomi’s brainwashing program,” I confess.

Dean blinks once. “Okkkaaay…. What else?”

“Else?”

“Was that the only thing weighing on you?” he asks, as if it amused by my concern.

“No, but--”

“Cas, I’ve died a bunch of times—and none of them were your fault. All that proves is that deep down, you couldn’t kill the real me even if you tried. So, tell me, what else? Or…” Dean bends down to pick up the crystal, carefully using the ties of his robe to keep it from touching his skin. He hands it me. “Show me. Whatever it is that you think will send me running for the hills.”

My mind fills with images—those thousand bleeding, glassy-eyed Deans, the burnt-husk wings of over a thousand dead angels, the light going out of Balthazar and Alfie as I stabbed them. I remember Jimmy, whose body I wear, and his once-whole family. But Dean’s right—for the most part, he knows about all those things, and he forgave me for them. Much more readily than he forgives himself for his mistakes. And, to be honest, those were never the things I’ve been afraid to show him.

“Alright,” I breathe, closing my eyes.

When I open them again, we’re outside. It’s spring.

_“Is this…?” Dean asks, soaking in the familiar sight of the suburban backyard. The one large tree beside us rains pink petals onto the grass where, in a few seasons, it will rain leaves._

_“Yes,” I respond, feeling little desire to explain the scene playing in front of us._

Memory Castiel looks at Dean through the window of the neatly-kept home, sees the woman—Lisa, he remembers—come up to him from behind, her small arms wrapping around his waist. Dean had been sorting the mail, but looks backward as she presses her nose to the side of his neck, his smile as bright as he is capable of when he doesn’t have Sam. And something in Castiel stabs like an angel blade.

Days upon days flash by, but it would be hard to notice if it weren’t for the change in Dean’s clothing. Castiel watches Dean pour himself water out of the tap in pajama pants and a grey T-shirt, watches him ruffle Ben’s hair where the preteen sits at the kitchen table, watches him step out to the yard at night and look up at the stars. The angel wonders what he’s thinking. When Dean goes inside after his nightly musings, Castiel never follows—allowing Dean at least that much of the privacy he had always so desperately craved. And yet, he can’t stop himself from visiting altogether.

The civil war among his kind is…draining to say the least. There is a very real possibility that he will fail, that Raphael will win, and the Apocalypse that Dean and Sam gave so much to stop will be put into motion anyway. He needs moments to not be a leader of his people—to not be decisive or strong—to, if anything, be very, very weak. And while he used to spend time gathering his thoughts in an autistic man’s afterlife—ever since he met Dean Winchester, he has to admit that he prefers Earth to Heaven.

Spring turns into summer and Dean mows the backyard without his shirt on, smirking at the catcalls Lisa gives from the kitchen. Castiel feels a ridiculous possessiveness over the body she is admiring—though Dean doesn’t wear his mark on his shoulder any longer. Still, Castiel grew those bones back into being, layered muscle and tissue over them, dotted freckles over skin exactly as they were before hellhounds took him. Castiel thought, at the time, he was creating something functional—a once again breathing and living human being—and yet, now he sees that what he remade is also beautiful, even if it doesn’t quite match the glory of the soul within.

Castiel watches Dean fix the outdoor AC condenser, the hunter cursing much less than he would have expected, and wonders why he tortures himself by coming here. He knows that he could go to Dean now, ask for aid, and the hunter would do it. But it would shatter his peace in the process. And the worst part is, a part of Castiel wants to ask anyway—not because Dean may be able to help him defeat Rafael, but simply because Castiel would rather have Dean at his side than at Lisa’s and Ben’s.

And _that_ is why he stays silent and invisible. Because he may be a fallen angel—selfish and corrupt in the eyes of many—but if there is one order he has fulfilled with his whole heart, it is looking after The Righteous Man.

Since being resurrected at Stull Cemetery, Castiel is a more powerful angel than he has ever been—and yet, he knows he is still less of an angel than he once was. Because even if he doesn’t have a word for this…profound bond he has with Dean, his feelings for the hunter ache inside him the way thunder chases hopelessly after lightning—and that is not something angels should ever feel.

Autumn leaves flutter past Dean’s shoulders, covering areas he has just raked. The whole task seems pointless—but so is Castiel coming here every week, sometimes every day without saying a word. He needs to make a choice—to go to Dean or to walk away and _stay_ away.

He wishes he could read Dean’s eyes—to see if he is truly content where he is—thinking that might help him make his decision. But the hunter doesn’t look into the distance the way he used to stare at Castiel, and he can see nothing in them but familiar green-gold specks. Another leaf falls.

He should stay.

He should go.

Dean shakes his rake to get rid of what is caught between the tines. Castiel takes a hesitant step forward.

And that’s when Crowley clears his throat behind him.


	26. 2016's Dean POV

_2016’s Dean POV_

Sometimes, when Dad would go off on hunts, leaving us in a motel room for days at a time, I would sneak out after Sammy had gone to sleep to play arcade games. Not the most responsible babysitting—and I’d feel guilty as hell afterward—but still… I just needed to breathe air that hadn’t been recycled through my own lungs a million times already—to look at something other than the color _taupe_.

I felt almost like a normal kid there—even if I was a kid with a lockpicking set, ready to break into the change collector if I got the chance. It was nice—leaving my name on virtual scoreboards even if we weren’t in town long enough to get enrolled in school—even if I knew Dad was the one _really_ making a difference by ganking whatever hell-bitch brought us there in the first place.

A lot of times I played to my strengths—the shooter games, the racers—but for a while there, I got obsessed with pinball. For one thing, you could often play for an hour on a single quarter without having another kid breathe on your neck waiting for their turn.

And—whatever—it was fun— _distracting_ whenever there was shit that I didn’t want to think about.

But, if I played long enough, there always came a time when the ball would head for one of the outlanes—the pathways on the outer edge of the obstacle course that bypassed the flappers altogether. Nothing you could do but watch the ball drop out of play—even though I tended to punch the hell out of the flappers anyway just out of principle.

It wasn’t a great feeling then—waiting, useless, for the screen to flash “Game Over”—and it’s not a great feeling now.

If Cas had told me any other way, it would be different. I could have said his jokes were getting better. I could have mentioned he was important to me and Sam too. I could have run away only to tell him to _Forget about it, OK?_ when I saw him next. Only, let’s be real…in that scenario, I might have avoided him for days until I was sure he wouldn’t bring it up again.

It’s kind of hard to pull any of that crap when the dude _let me inside his head_ —where everything was just laid out in the open. By not hiding anything, he gave me no place to hide either. Because, yeah, I can be a dick—and there are times when I’ve genuinely believed angels just can’t _feel_ things the way humans do. But there is no way I could see what I just saw and pretend that he doesn't… well, actually fuckin’ love me.

_That stupid son of a bitch._

Like I get that he does reckless things a lot—places his trust in douchebags who are just gonna screw him over—but this… is messed up is what it is.

Everyone— _everyone_ I’ve ever cared about—gets burned. Lisa got kidnapped. Dad sold his soul to hell. Sam lost his whole perfect life in California. Doesn’t he _get_ that?

Of course, he does. Because Cas has been with me for most of that crap—literally followed me through Hell and back. He’s already given up his family for me. Died. Lost his grace. Been tortured. Been kicked out.

 _Goddamn, maybe the other angels weren’t completely off base when they said he was built wrong._ Because no one puts up with all that and wants to stick around.

I thought that was part of why he left—when he went back to Heaven after Sam jumped into the Pit—because he wanted to go back to the brothers and sisters that I had taken from him. And I couldn’t blame him for that. People leave me all the time once they realize that I’m a walking hex bag.

Only it turns out he didn’t _really_ leave after all. He just stalked my backyard like a creep.

Which brings me to the other fucked up part of all of this. Because, you know, I might have done a bit of creepy stalking Sam myself when he was at Stanford just to make sure that the kid was OK—but I didn’t… you know, get all butterfly tingly about it. But when Cas looked at past me…

There’s checking _in_ on someone and then there’s checking them _out_ and I’m pretty sure Cas was doing both.

I wish I could go back to ten minutes ago when I didn’t know any of this…except…. Except that this sinking pinball feeling didn’t start when Cas sucked me into the memory of my old backyard.

Maybe, it was the whole Uriel memory that triggered it—or Sam bringing up shit at the bar last week—or who knows, maybe it was back when Cas broke out of a brainwashing trance and wouldn’t explain how he did it—but it was there. The knowledge that that ball was gonna drop someday.

“Dean, I--” Cas starts, and I realize I’ve just been standing there frozen—for thirty seconds or thirty minutes, I don’t know.

I open my mouth and he abruptly shuts his, but I let out a breath instead of words. It would help if Cas’s eyes weren’t so fuckin’ blue right now.

Eventually, the angel huffs at my continued silence, and it’s almost enough to make me smile. Because, yeah, he wants me, but I obviously annoy the shit out of him, too—which is just safer ground for everyone.

And then, because he’s goddamn brave, he juts his chin up and asks, “Can you tell me if you’re angry at least?”

I’m a lot of things that I don't have names for—but, no, “I’m not pissed,” I promise him, rocking back on my heels.

Cas’s shoulders relax slightly, helping to unwrinkle the baggy trench coat, and some of the tenseness in my own shoulders dissipates a little in response.

“I’m not gonna lie—I feel a little weird about—” I clear my throat. “But it’s fine—I mean, as long as you’re fine… that I know.”

Cas quirks his head to the side and I wonder if he does that even when he’s the size of a Chrysler building since it seems so inherent to who he is. “You’re taking the fact that I have feelings for you much better than I anticipated.”

And OK, I should have expected Cas to be blunt about this once his secret was out—but that doesn’t mean I don’t slightly choke on my own tongue when he just blurts out shit.

“Yeah, well,” I mutter when I can breathe again. “I’ve never judged anyone else for having the hots for me before. Why start now?”

Cas nods, slowly, understanding at least a part of what I’m not saying. I stuff my hands in the pockets of my robe again.

It’s probably close to seven in the morning now—dust motes swirling warmly in the light coming off the wall sconces—meaning, “People are gonna start getting up soon,” I tell the angel, and _I don’t want to be standing here awkwardly when they do_.

Cas hums in agreement. “I’ve been keeping you from your breakfast pie for a while now,” he says, stepping to the side as if to let me pass even though the room is large enough I definitely could have just gone around him.

Which is why it probably surprises himself and me when I squeeze his arm in passing. “Come on, I’ll make you coffee.”

“Oh, I….” He scans me curiously and maybe I’m still in shock or something because it doesn’t freak me out like it probably should now that I know what some of those looks mean. “I’d appreciate that,” Cas murmurs softly before walking side-by-side with me to the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This...was a very difficult chapter to write and I probably went through three or four versions before I landed on this.
> 
> I'm guessing that, for some of you, this Dean might seem a little OOC and I wanted to explain my reasoning.
> 
> In a lot of ways, this story shares a lot of similarities with another one of my fics, [Truth Be Told](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21621739/chapters/51558172), in that it delves into the past issues between the characters a lot. In that fic, Cas also sort of forces a moment like this, and Dean has a much more stereotypically Dean Winchester freakout that I am actually quite proud of. 
> 
> However, I really wanted to do something different in this story. Additionally, Dean has spent a lot of his life caring about other people more than they care about him--and he knows how much it hurts when that love goes unacknowledged. I feel like in the very unique situation where he is forced to actually feel what Cas feels about him, he wouldn't be able to just dismiss that as something Cas is misinterpreting or doesn't really mean. That's not to say he won't have some delayed difficulty with this revelation--and it doesn't mean he doesn't have his own feelings to sort through, but--for now, he's being the mature Dean Winchester we all know he is... deep down.


	27. 2008's Bobby POV

_2008’s Bobby POV_

“This should only delay us three days, maybe four,” Sam promises over the sound of passing cars on the highway. “We’re about two hours outside of Hayward, and, from what we can tell, it’s just a lone werewolf. But we can always put someone else on this if you--”

“Your worry is precious, but I’ve never known a hunter to croak from too much peace and quiet before,” I grumble, cell phone threatening to fall from where I have it cradled between my cheek and neck. I readjust it before it can fall into the pot of chili, which is already billowing steam.

Sam pauses, then gives a half-laugh. “I take that to mean that you’ve enjoyed having us out of your hair this week.”

“Whatcha talking about?” one of the Deans speaks from the background. “Bobby loves us. We’re adorable.”

I think about the episode of _Tori & Dean_ I have on pause and the clawfoot bathtub I discovered on the second floor. “Just saying, there’s no need to do a half-assed job on my account.”

“We won’t,” Sam insists. “And, if you really don’t mind, I might come back a little later than everyone else. I have this—uh—well, a friend asked me to stop by if I was in her area…”

“Is that so?”

“Sammy! Are we talking about--” I hear before the line clicks off. _Small mercies._

No doubt, I love those boys like my own—but distance makes the heart grow fonder and all that crap. Plus, it’s nice to be able to set down my book of angel lore without having someone move the damn thing in the five minutes it takes me to get a beer.

Was it risky? Sending past Dean on a witch hunt to Iowa when that kid attracts more unwanted attention than someone going through airport security with a metal knee? Probably. But he was getting to that stage of restless where he was climbing the bunker’s walls—his attitude growing along with how many beers a day he drank—so it was either let him kill something or one of _us_ was going to kill _him_.

As it turned out, while there _were_ witches in the area, the one causing all the ruckus was a psychic that had been trapped in her family’s basement for years. When she tried reaching out to nearby minds for help, well, they ended up dropping dead. In the end, the boys decided to let her live—with an aunt out in California—hoping that now that she knows more about her powers, she’ll be able to control them.

It’s definitely not one of those hunts that you can box up all tidy and wrap with a bow, but then again, hunters prefer using duct tape anyway.

/////

Three hours later, feeling just the right side of full, I find myself wandering the bunker.

It’s a weird feeling—having a room in Sam’s and Dean’s house rather than the other way around. Having Dean make breakfasts and do the laundry—with, get this, _Mountain Breeze fabric softener_. Taking a leak at night and bumping into an _angel_ wandering the halls.

A few days after arriving here, I thought, _Wouldn’t John like to get a load of this?_ only to be instantly grateful that I was the one given the window seat to 2016, not him.

Don’t get me wrong—I buried my grudge with John Winchester along with his body—but as good of a hunter as he was, it seems to me like his boys have done a hell of a lot more for the world than he or I could have ever dreamed of. And I don’t think they could have stopped the Apocalypse, dispensed with the archangels, killed off several Knights of Hell, and talked down God’s long-lost sister if he’d been around, making them doubt themselves at every turn. I don’t think they’d have the family they have now if John Winchester had been alive to warn them against mixing their dirty laundry with anything supernatural.

Past Dean still has John's voice in his head, that’s pretty clear. It’s what makes him frown at his older self for walking around in a robe and slippers, like owning anything _fluffy_ is an insult to his ego. It’s why he rides Sam for what he’s learned about Ruby—even though that’s done and past. It’s why he gravitates towards Cas one day and then pushes him away again as soon as he notices how close the angel is with his older self. If only shaking someone by the shoulders worked as well as kicking a TV for giving them a clearer picture.

To be honest, I was surprised all four of them agreed to go on this little road trip. I'm even more surprised that everyone seems to be getting along—even if taking two cars probably helped.

With the boys gone, I’ve continued to patch up the warding around the ceiling. I'm in the middle of the weird trumpet-like rune, _ronove,_ which is part of the spell that warns the bunker of outside cataclysmic events, when something catches my eye.

 _Son of a bitch!_ The ladder wobbles in my surprise but stabilizes quickly.

As I climb down, my eyes scan the other corners of the war room, noticing an uncomfortable pattern. Trying not to look too out-of-the-ordinary, I pack up my supplies and retrace my steps through the bunker, wandering past the boys’ dormitories as I go.

Half an hour later, I’m dressed and eyeing the hot rods in the garage for anything drivable that _won’t_ have random people asking me if there’s a classic car show going on.

 _Motorcycle it is,_ I decide—definitely not struggling to heft my left leg over the damn thing.

Now, Sioux Falls ain’t exactly New York City, but it’s not quite the sticks that Lebanon is. A few weeks ago, I wondered what the population was here. Cas answered “199” with the caveat that Mrs. Tenley, who ran the butcher shop where they pick up lamb’s blood, was expecting twins any day now. So, the chances of finding an internet café in town were slim to none.

Luckily, I find one in Smith Center, a few miles away and quickly get to work.

"Son of a bitch!" I say out loud this time, ignoring the looks it gets me from the other patrons.

Sam’s phone rings before finally going to voicemail. I try Dean’s. Then the other Dean’s. Then Cas’s, struggling not to roll my eyes. _“Make… your voice… a mail.”_

“Goddammit, You boys better be on radio silent because you’re stalking something—not fallen into a trap like a bunch of Bambis. When you get this, _call me._ Don’t go back to the bunker. There’s cameras set up everywhere—sending live feed—but when I checked the control room, all it’s showing is looped footage. Plus, I did some follow up on that psychic whose box you just popped—Magda. Seems like she never made it to California. If I had to guess? The British Men of Letters have been keeping an eye on you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I know it's been forever. And I know this isn't particularly long or probably particularly good, so no excuses, I was just having a really hard time getting this out. 
> 
> Regardless, I will try to update more regularly and I will definitely be completing this story in case anyone had any concerns.


	28. 2016's Sam POV

_2016’s Sam POV_

“Your worry is precious, but I’ve never known a hunter to croak from too much peace and quiet before,” Bobby’s voice echoes slightly as it bounces off the bunker’s walls.

“I take that to mean that you’ve enjoyed having us out of your hair this week.”

“Whatcha talking about?” the younger version of my brother scoffs from where he’s driving one-handed down the Wisconsin highway, his Other self a half-mile ahead of us having grudgingly taken Cas’s truck for the day. “Bobby loves us. We’re adorable.”

I roll my eyes—but in the direction of the window—where yet another identical cornfield passes us by. _Little kids_ are adorable, _puppies_ are adorable, episodes of _My Little Pony_ are adorable—it’s very possible that “adorable” is just another word for something high-energy that you wish had a more obvious “off” button.

I don’t blame Bobby for needing a break from this whole strange situation he’s found himself in. It’s not like I couldn’t use one myself.

Both Deans and Cas had been continuing their little memory sessions on the road. Which means not only does younger Dean now know that Ruby was alive in 2008 and that my past self was working with her, but he’d finally caught up to the part about me drinking demon blood—as seen through Dean’s own hazy recollections of Jimmy Novak and how I exorcised his wife. He’d gotten pissed at both me and Cas that night.

And the thing is, he’s _right_ to be angry. I made a mistake that still makes my stomach churn. But between Dean and me, we buried that particular issue a long time ago—and both of us don’t appreciate it being brought up again now.

“Yeah, Sam messed up. But we’ve _allllll_ messed up, Kid—you’re not immune,” Older Dean explained the next morning. “So, when it’s your turn to go through all this crap, realize that picking fights with Sam—instead of being there for him—just causes everything to get fucked up ten times worse.”

What I’m learning is that, while past Dean’s temper flares bright and volatile, like home-launched fireworks, it also fades just as fast without something to feed it. He’d looked between all three of us—at the united team we made, saying “Get over it”—and scowled but accepted a breakfast burrito.

That was two days ago—apparently enough time for him to go from sleeping in the Impala to get away from us to trying to get me to sing along to Eye of the Tiger as he belted his own off-key rendition at the top of his lungs _._

As he strangles a high note, adding to the headache behind my eyeballs, I casually mention to Bobby that I might reroute on the way home to see a friend.

“Sammy! Are we talking about a _lady_ friend here?” Dean asks just as I’m hanging up.

“She’s—” I begin, which is apparently enough for Dean.

“Sammy, Sammy, Sammy,” he grins, lopsidedly. “You’ve been holding out on me.”

“Eileen and I aren’t a couple,” I inform him, slipping my phone into my jeans pocket.

“But you want to be.” Dean sounds so sure of himself that I really wish that I could prove him wrong. Except Eileen is incredible and I get the feeling from our late-night Skype conversations that she wouldn’t be opposed to… exploring things a little further.

“Why didn’t the Other Me mention this chick?” Dean asks after I’ve been quiet for a while.

“I think he recognizes it’s none of his—your—business.”

“Nah, that can’t be right.”

“I’m serious,” I tell him. “I don’t have the greatest track record when it comes to dating.”

“Yeah, no kidding. Werewolves, _demons--_ ”

And there it is again. “I’m not talking about them being supernatural, Jerk. I mean they…” I trail off—picturing Jessica, Madison, Sarah—all dead—Amelia potentially waiting for me in a hotel room in Texas—only for my thoughts to circle around to Jessica again. It always comes back to her.

“It doesn’t matter. Point is, Eileen is different…. She’s a hunter,” I explain at Dean’s raised eyebrows, “meaning that I wouldn’t be dragging her into the life. But that doesn’t mean she necessarily wants… Winchesters have bad luck even as _hunters_ go. She should know what she’s getting into.”

Dean snorts. “Other than your pants, you mean.”

“You know what, never mind,” I huff, leaning my head against the slightly fogged-up window with a plan to nap.

“Hey,” Dean says, smacking me in the knee until I open one eye to look at him. “I’m not trying to be an asshole. If you want to sit on the bench a while longer, it’s not like I’m gonna tell you to play ball.”

“But…?” I prompt.

“I still want to know more about this girl.”

“Dean….”

“What? She sounds like she’s important to you, right? And I’m going to a past where you don’t know her yet. So, if you want me to hint-hint, nudge-nudge more than just the Apocalypse, I probably need something to work with….”

It’s a logical point he’s making—even if it’s not why he’s making it. Still, he _is_ my brother—who’s afraid of planes, howler monkeys, and that the people in his life aren’t gonna stick around—and I figure I can give him this. “Don’t worry, you like her,” I start, thinking warmly of Eileen helping Dean through the ASL for ‘suck a bag of dicks.’ “She’s deaf, so she has to put up with a lot of stigma working with other hunters sometimes—until she saves their ass from a banshee…”

A half-hour later, I realize that Dean hasn’t interrupted me once—and when I glance over, that hidden fear in his eyes seems to have lifted somewhat, replaced by a barely-there smile hiding in the corners of his mouth.

/////

I guess I fall asleep after all because I wake up with the mid-afternoon sun streaming through the window and my phone vibrating. Wiping the crud from my eyes, I open the message. “It’s Cas,” I inform Dean. “Says there’s a diner coming up in a couple of exits that you want to stop at.” Followed by the emoji symbols for a burger, pancakes, and a thumbs up.

Since there’s no way Dean is going to say ‘no’ to food, I’ve already sent a confirmation text before he responds with an “Awesome.”

Even from the parking lot, the fried oil starts seeping into my pores. The outside is chrome with orange and teal neon, large picture windows offering a clear view to the inside. The other Dean and Cas are seated catty-corner to each other at a table in the center of a restaurant, heads bowed low in conversation as Dean rips a paper straw wrapper in half.

There’s something going on with those two—but, like usual, they don’t really keep me in the loop. They’re not secretly fighting (It’s not as if Cas is an expansive talker, but it’s amazing how much louder his not-talking becomes when he and Dean are on the outs. Plus, Dean hasn’t been hitting the bottle any harder than usual lately).

If anything, they’re just being super _polite_ around each other. Cas actually asked if he was standing too close to Dean at one point (while he was a good two inches farther away from him than usual). Dean, in turn, offered to stop at some tourist traps on the way home that he thought Cas might be interested in. It’s a new layer added on to their already painful tension—and somehow, we all keep pretending like we don’t notice it.

At first, I think the slight pressure at my back is someone trying to get past me to enter the diner. After all, the parking lot is pretty full of jostling families. But then it stays there—pressed firmly against my spine—and I recognize it as the shape of a gun through my jacket.

I can see Past Dean freeze out of the corner of my eye—a second, dark-haired man I don't recognize right behind him—and inside the diner, Dean and Cas are approached by a blonde woman that is, unfortunately, all too familiar.

“Hello, Sam,” a British voice speaks near my ear. I risk a glance backward.

“Mitch, was it? Or Mick? What can we do for the British Men of Letters today?”


End file.
